THE    GIRLS 


Books  by 
EDNA    FERBER 

BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN 
CHEERFUL,  BY  REQUEST 
EMMA  MCCHESNEY  &  Co. 
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THE  GIRLS 

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THE  GIRLS 

BY 
EDNA  FERBER 


GARDEN  CITY,  N.   Y.,  AND   TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  IQ2I,  BY  THE  CROWELL,  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
PRINTED  AT  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y.,  U.  8.  A. 


TO 
LILLIAN  ABLER 

WHO   SHIES  AT   BUTTERFLIES 
BUT   NOT  AT   LIFE 


THE   GIRLS 


662787 


THE    GIRLS 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  is  a  question  of  method.  Whether  to  rush  you 
up  to  the  girls  pellmell,  leaving  you  to  become 
acquainted  as  best  you  can;  or,  with  elaborate  sly 
ness,,  to  slip  you  so  casually  into  their  family  life 
that  they  will  not  even  glance  up  when  you  enter 
the  room,  or  leave  it;  or  to  present  the  three  of  them 
in  solemn  order  according  to  age,  epoch,  and  story. 
This  last  would  mean  beginning  with  great-aunt 
Charlotte  Thrift,  spinster,  aged  seventy- f  our ; 
thence  to  her  niece  and  namesake  Lottie 
Pay  son,  spinster,  aged  thirty-two;  finishing 
with  Lottie's  niece  and  namesake  Charley 
Kemp,  spinster,  aged  eighteen  and  a  half — 
you  may  be  certain  nobody  ever  dreamed  of 
calling  her  Charlotte,  If  you  are  led  by  all  this 
to  exclaim,  aghast,  "A  story  about  old  maids!" — 
you  are  right.  It  is.  Though,  after  all,  perhaps 
one  couldn't  call  great-aunt  Charlotte  an  old  maid. 
When  a  woman  has  achieved  seventy-four,  a  virgin, 
there  is  about  her  something  as  sexless,,  as  aloof 

3 


4  THE  GIRLS 

and  monumental,  as  there  is  about  a  cathedral  or 
a  sequoia.  Perhaps,  too,  the  term  is  inappropriate 
to  the  vigorous,  alert,  and  fun-loving  Lottie.  For 
that  matter,  a  glimpse  of  Charley  in  her  white 
woolly  sweater  and  gym  pants  might  cause  you  to 
demand  a  complete  retraction  of  the  term.  Charley 
is  of  the  type  before  whom  this  era  stands  in  amaze 
ment  and  something  like  terror.  Charley  speaks 
freely  on  subjects  of  which  great-aunt  Charlotte  has 
never  even  heard.  Words  obstetrical,  psychoana 
lytical,  political,  metaphysical  and  eugenic  trip  from 
Charley's  tongue.  Don't  think  that  Charley  is  a 
highbrow  (to  use  a  word  fallen  into  disuse).  Not 
at  all.  Even  her  enemies  admit,  grudgingly,  that 
she  packs  a  nasty  back-hand  tennis  wallop;  and 
that  her  dancing  is  almost  professional.  Her  chief 
horror  is  of  what  she  calls  sentiment.  Her  minor 
hatreds  are  "glad"  books,  knitted  underwear,  cor 
sets,  dirt  both  physical  and  mental,  lies,  fat  minds 
and  corporeal  fat.  She  looks  her  best  in  a  white 
fuzzy  sweater.  A  shade  too  slim  and  boyish,  per 
haps,  for  chiffons. 

The  relationship  between  Charlotte,  Lottie,  and 
Charley  is  a  simple  one,  really,  though  having,  per 
haps,  an  intricate  look  to  the  outsider.  Great-aunt,, 
niece,  grand-niece:  it  was  understood  readily 
enough  in  Chicago's  South  Side,  just  as  it  was  under 
stood  that  no  one  ever  called  Lottie  "Charlotte," 


THE  GIRLS  5 

or  Charley  "Lottie/'  though  any  of  the  three  might 
be  designated  as  "one  of  the  Thrift  girls." 

The  Thrifts  had  been  Chicago  South  Siders  since 
that  September  in  1836  when  Isaac  Thrift  had  trav 
eled  tediously  by  rail,  Sound  steamer,  river  boat,, 
canal  boat,  lake  ship,  and  horse  wagon  from  his 
native  New  York  State  to  the  unkempt  prairie  set 
tlement  on  the  banks  of  the  sluggish  stream  that  the 
Pottawatamie  Indians  called  Che-ca-gou.  Their 
reason  for  having  thus  named  a  city  after  the 
homely  garlic  plant  was  plain  enough  whenever  the 
breeze  came  pungently  from  the  prairies  instead  of 
from,  Lake  Michigan. 

Right  here  is  the  start  of  Aunt  Charlotte.  And 
yet  the  temptation  is  almost  irresistible  to  brush 
rudely  past  her  and  to  hurry  on  to  Lottie  Payson, 
who  is  herself  hurrying  on  home  through  the  slate 
and  salmon-pink  Chicago  sunset  after  what  is 
known  on  the  South  Side  as  "spending  the  after 


noon." 


An  exhilarating  but  breathless  business — this 
catching  up  with  Lottie;  Lottie  of  the  fine  straight 
back,  the  short  sturdy  legs,  the  sensible  shoes,  the 
well-tailored  suit  and  the  elfish  interior.  All  these 
items  contributed  to  the  facility  with  which  she  put 
the  long  Chicago  blocks  behind  her — all,,  that  is,  ex 
cept  the  last.  An  unwed  woman  of  thirty-odd  is  not 
supposed  to  possess  an  elfish  exterior;  she  is  ex- 


6  THE  GIRLS 

pected  to  be  well-balanced  and  matter-of-fact  and 
practical.  Lottie  knew  this  and  usually  managed  to 
keep  the  imp  pretty  well  concealed.  Yet  she  so  often 
felt  sixteen  and  utterly  irresponsible  that  she  had 
to  take  brisk  walks  along  the  lake  front  on  blustery 
days,  when  the  spray  stung  your  cheeks;  or  out 
Bryn  Mawr  way  or  even  to  Beverly  Hills  where 
dwellings  were  sparse  and  one  could  take  off  one's 
hat  and  venture  to  skip,  furtively,  without  being 
eyed  askance.  This  was  supposed  to  help  work 
off  the  feeling — not  that  Lottie  wanted  to  work  it 
off.  She  liked  it.  But  you  can't  act  Peter  Panish 
at  thirty- two  without  causing  a  good  deal  of  action 
among  conservative  eyebrows.  Lottie's  mother, 
Mrs.  Carrie  Payson,  would  have  been  terribly  dis 
tressed  at  the  thought  of  South  Side  .eyebrows  ele 
vated  against  a  member  of  her  household.  Sixty- 
six  years  of  a  full  life  had  taught  Mrs.  Carrie  Pay- 
son  little  about  the  chemistry  of  existence.  Else 
she  must  have  known  how  inevitably  a  disastrous 
explosion  follows  the  bottling  up  of  the  Lotties  of 
this  world. 

On  this  particular  March  day  the  elf  was  prov 
ing  obstreperous.  An  afternoon  spent  indoors  talk 
ing  to  women  of  her  own  age  and  position  was 
likely  to  affect  Lottie  Payson  thus.  Walking  fleetly 
along  now,  she  decided  that  she  hated  spending 
afternoons ;  that  they  were  not  only  spent  but  squan- 


THE  GIRLS  7 

dered.  Beck  Schaefer  had  taken  the  others  home 
in  her  electric.  Lottie,  seized  with  a  sudden  distaste 
for  the  glittering  enameled  box  with  its  cut-glass 
cornucopia  for  flowers  (artificial),,  its  gray  velvet 
upholstery  and  tasseled  straps,  had  elected  to  walk, 
though  she  knew  it  would  mean  being  late. 

"Figger?"  Beck  Schaefer  had  asked,  settling 
her  own  plump  person  in  the  driver's  seat. 

"Air,"  Lottie  had  answered,  not  altogether  truth 
fully;  and  drew  a  long  breath.  She  turned  away 
from  the  curb.  The  electric  trundled  richly  off,  its 
plate-glass  windows  filled  with  snugly  tailored 
shoulders,  furs,,  white  gloves,  vivid  hats.  Lottie 
held  a  hand  high  in  farewell,  palm  out,  as  the  gleam 
ing  vehicle  sped  silently  away,  lurched  fatly  around 
a  corner,  and  was  gone. 

So  she  strode  home  now,  through  the  early  eve 
ning  mist,  the  zany  March  wind  buffeting  her 
skirts — no  skirt:  it  is  1916  and  women  are  knicker- 
bockered  underneath  instead  of  petticoated — and 
the  fishy  smell  that  was  Lake  Michigan  in  March ; 
the  fertilizer  smell  that  was  the  Stockyards  when 
the  wind  was  west ;  and  the  smoky  smell  that  was 
soft  coal  from  the  I.  C.  trains  and  a  million  unfet 
tered  chimneys,  all  blending  and  mellowing  to  a 
rich  mixture  that  was  incense  to  her  Chicago-bred 
nostrils. 


8  THE  GIRLS 

She  was  walking  rapidly  and  thinking  clearly,  if 
disconnectedly : 

"How  we  lied  to  each  other  this  afternoon !  Once 
or  twice,  though,  we  came  nearer  the  truth  than 
was  strictly  comfortable  .  .  .  Beck's  bitter  .  .  . 
There !  I  forgot  Celia's  recipe  for  that  icebox  cake 
after  all  ...  Beck's  legs  ...  I  never  saw  such — 
uh — tumultuous  legs  .  .  .  gray  silk  stockings 
ought  to  be  prohibited  on  fat  legs ;  room  seemed  to 
be  full  of  them  .  .  .  That's  a  nice  sunset.  I'd  love 
to  go  over  to  the  lake  just  for  a  minute  .  .  .  No, 
guess  I'd  better  not  with  the  folks  coming  to  din 
ner  .  .  .  People  always  saying  Chicago's  ugly 
when  it's  really  ...  Of  course  the  Loop  is  pretty 
bad  .  .  .  Tomorrow'd  be  a  good  day  to  go  down 
town  and  look  at  blue  serges  ...  a  tricotine  I 
think  ...  I  wonder  if  mother  will  want  to  go  ... 
I  do  hope  this  once  .  .  ." 

Here  Lottie  drew  a  deep  breath;  the  kind  of 
breathing  that  relieves  stomach  nerves.  She  was 
so  sure  that  mother  would  want  to  go.  She  almost 
always  did. 

Here  we  are,  striding  briskly  along  with  Lottie 
Pay  son,  while  great-aunt  Charlotte,  a  wistful  black- 
silk  figure,,  lingers  far  behind.  We  are  prone  to  be 
impatient  of  black-silk  figures,  quite  forgetting  that 
they  once  were  slim  and  eager  white  young  figures 
in  hoop-skirts  that  sometimes  tilted  perilously  up 


THE  GIRLS  9 

behind,  displaying  an  unseemly  length  of  frilled 
pantalette.  Great-aunt  Charlotte's  skirts  had  shaped 
the  course  of  her  whole  life. 

Charlotte  Thrift  had  passed  eighteen  when  the 
Civil  War  began.  There  is  a  really  beautiful  picture 
of  her  in  her  riding  habit,  taken  at  the  time.  She 
is  wearing  a  hard-boiled  hat  with  a  plume,  and 
you  wonder  how  she  ever  managed  to  reconcile 
that  skirt  with  a  horse's  back.  The  picture  doesn't 
show  the  color  of  the  plume  but  you  doubtless  would 
know.  It  is  a  dashing  plume  anyway,  and  caresses 
her  shoulder.  In  one  hand  she  is  catching  up  the 
folds  of  her  voluminous  skirt,  oh,,  ever  so  little; 
and  in  the  other,  carelessly,  she  is  holding  a  rose. 
Her  young  face  is  so  serious  as  to  be  almost  severe. 
That  is,  perhaps,  due  to  her  eyebrows  which  were 
considered  too  heavy  and  dark  for  feminine  beauty. 
And  yet  there  is  a  radiance  about  the  face,  and  an 
effect  of  life  and  motion  about  the  young  figure 
that  bespeaks  but  one  thing.  Great-aunt  Charlotte 
still  has  the  picture  somewhere.  Sometimes,  in  a 
mild  orgy  of  "straightening  up"  she  comes  upon 
it  in  its  pasteboard  box  tucked  away  at  the  bottom 
of  an  old  chest  in  her  bedroom.  At  such  times 
she  is  likely  to  take  it  out  and  look  at  it  with  a 
curiously  detached  air,  as  though  it  were  the  picture 
of  a  stranger.  It  is  in  this  wise,  too,  that  her  dim 
old  eyes  regard  the  world — impersonally.  It  is  as 


io  THE  GIRLS 

though,  at  seventy- four,  she  no  longer  is  swayed  by 
emotions,  memories,  people,  events.  Remote,,  inac 
cessible,  immune,  she  sees,  weighs,  and  judges  with 
the  detached  directness  of  a  grim  old  idol. 

Fifty-five  years  had  yellowed  the  photograph 
of  the  wasp-waisted  girl  in  the  billowing  riding 
skirt  when  her  grand-niece,  Charley  Kemp,  ap 
peared  before  her  in  twentieth  century  riding 
clothes:  sleeveless  jacket  ending  a  little  below  the 
hips;  breeches  baggy  in  the  seat  but  gripping  the 
knees.  Great-aunt  Charlotte  had  said,  "So  that's 
what  it's  come  to."  You  could  almost  hear  her 
agile  old  mind  clicking  back  to  that  other  young 
thing  of  the  plume,  and  the  rose  and  the  little 
booted  foot  peeping  so  demurely  from  beneath  the 
folds  of  the  sweeping  skirt. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  Charley  had  looked  down 
at  her  slim  self  and  had  flicked  her  glittering  tan 
boots  with  her  riding  whip  because  that  seemed  the 
thing  to  do.  Charley  went  to  matinees. 

Great-aunt  Charlotte  had  pursed  her  crumpled 
old  lips,  whether  in  amusement  or  disapproval — 
those  withered  lips  whose  muscles  had  long  ago  lost 
their  elasticity.  "Well,  it's  kind  of  comical,  really. 
And  ugly.  But  you  don't  look  ugly  in  it,  Charley, 
or  comical  either.  You  look  like  a  right  pretty  young 
boy." 

Her  eyes  had  a  tenderly  amused  glint.     Those 


THE  GIRLS  ii 

eyes  saw  less  now  than  they  used  to :  an  encroaching 
cataract.  But  they  had  a  bright  and  piercing  ap 
pearance  owing  to  the  heavy  brows  which,  by  some 
prank  of  nature,  had  defied  the  aging  process  that 
had  laid  its  blight  upon  hair,  cheek,  lips,  skin,  and 
frame.  The  brows  had  remained  jetty  black;  twin 
cornices  of  defiance  in  the  ivory  ruin  of  her  face. 
They  gave  her  a  misleadingly  sinister  and  cynical 
look.  Piratical,  almost. 

Perhaps  those  eyebrows  indicated  in  Charlotte 
Thrift  something  of  the  iron  that  had  sustained 
her  father,  Isaac  Thrift,,  the  young  Easterner^ 
throughout  his  first  years  of  Middle- Western  hard 
ship.  Chicago  to-day  is  full  of  resentful  grand 
sons  and  -daughters  who  will  tell  you  that  if  their 
grandsire  had  bought  the  southwest  corner  of  State 
and  Madison  Streets  for  $2,050  in  cash,  as  he  could 
have,  they  would  be  worth  their  millions  to-day. 
And  they  are  right.  Still,  if  all  those  who  tell  you 
this  were  granted  their  wish  Chicago  now  would 
be  populated  almost  wholly  by  millionaire  real  estate 
holders;  and  the  southwest  corner  of  State  and 
Madison  would  have  had  to  be  as  the  loaves  and 
the  fishes. 

Isaac  Thrift  had  been  one  of  these  inconsiderate 
forebears.  He  had  bought  real  estate,  it  is  true, 
but  in  the  mistaken  belief  that  the  city's  growth 
and  future  lay  along  the  south  shore  instead  of  the 


12  THE  GIRLS 

north.  Chicago's  South  Side  in  that  day  was  a 
prairie  waste  where  wolves  howled  on  winter  nights 
and  where,,  in  the  summer,  flowrers  grew  so  riotously 
as  to  make  a  trackless  sea  of  bloom.  Isaac  Thrift 
had  thought  himself  very  canny  and  far-sighted  to 
vision  that  which  his  contemporaries  could  not  see. 
They  had  bought  North  Side  property.  They  had 
built  their  houses  there.  Isaac  Thrift  built  his  on 
Wabash,  near  Madison,  and  announced  daringly 
that  some  day  he  would  have  a  real  country  place, 
far  south,  near  Eighteenth  Street.  For  that  mat 
ter,  he  said,  the  time  would  come  when  they  would 
hear  of  houses  thick  in  a  street  that  would  be  known 
as  Thirtieth,  or  even  Fortieth.  How  they  laughed 
at  that!  Besides,,  it  was  pretty  well  acknowledged 
by  the  wiseacres  that  St.  Charles,  a  far  older  town, 
would  soon  surpass  Chicago  and  become  the  metrop 
olis  of  the  West. 

In  books  on  early  Chicago  and  its  settlers  you  can 
see  Isaac  Thrift  pictured  as  one  of  the  stern  and 
flinty  city  fathers,  all  boots  and  stock  and  massive 
watch-chain  and  side-whiskers.  It  was  neither  a 
time  nor  a  place  for  weaklings.  The  young  man 
who  had  come  hopefully  out  of  York  state  to  find 
his  fortune  in  the  welter  of  mud,  swamp,  Indians, 
frame  shanties  and  two-wheeled  carts  that  consti 
tuted  Chicago,  had  needed  all  his  indomitability. 

It  is  characteristic  of  him  that  until  his  marriage 


THE  GIRLS  13 

he  lived  at  the  New  Temperance  Hotel  (board  and 
lodging  $2.00  a  week;  clothes  washed  extra),  in 
stead  of  at  the  popular  Saugenash  Hotel  on  Mar 
ket  and  Lake,  where  the  innkeeper,  that  gay  and 
genial  Frenchman  and  pioneer,  Mark  Beaubien, 
would  sometimes  take  down  his  riddle  and  set  feet 
to  twinkling  and  stepping  in  the  square-dance. 
None  of  this  for  Isaac  Thrift.  He  literally  had 
rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  got  to  work.  Little  enough 
use  he  made  of  the  fine  bottle-green  broadcloth 
coat  with  the  gilt  buttons,  the  high  stock,  and  the 
pale  gray  pantaloons  brought  from  the  East.  But 
in  two  years  he  had  opened  a  sort  of  general  store 
and  real  estate  office  on  Lake  Street,  had  bought 
a  piece  of  ground  for  a  house  on  Wabash  (which 
piece  he  later  foolishly  sold)  and  had  sent  back 
East  for  his  bride.  That  lady  left  her  comfortable 
roof-tree  to  make  the  long  and  arduous  trip  that 
duplicated  the  one  made  earlier  by  her  husband- 
to-be.  It  is  to  her  credit  that  she  braved  it;  but 
she  had  a  hard  time  trying  to  adjust  her  New  Eng 
land  viewpoint  to  the  crude  rough  setting  in  which 
she  now  found  herself.  Her  letters  back  East  are 
so  typical  and  revealing  that  extracts,  at  least,  are 
imperative. 

'  .  .  .  The  times  are  exceedingly  dull  in  this 
city  of  Chicago;  there  is  little  business,  no  balls, 
no  parties,  some  shooting,  some  riding,  and  plenty 


14  THE  GIRLS 

of  loafers,  and  to-day,  after  the  rain,  a  plenty  of 
mud  which  completes  the  picture  .  .  .  The  water 
here  is  first-rate  bad  and  the  only  way  we  get  along 
is  by  drinking  a  great  deal  of  tea  and  coffee — two 
coffees  to  one  tea  .  .  .  The  weather  has  been  very 
mild.  There  has  not  been  snow  enough  to  stop 
the  burning  of  the  prairies  ...  If  the  waters  of 
Lake  Michigan  continue  to  rise  for  a  year  or  two 
more  Chicago  and  all  the  surrounding  country 
will  be  covered  with  one  vast  sheet  of  water,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  this  place  must  find  a  home  else 
where — and  I,  for  one,  will  find  said  home  farther 
East  .  .  .  Everyone  admires  my  pretty  things  from 
New  York;  my  cherry-colored  scarf;  my  gingham 
dress  with  the  silk  stripe  in  it,,  my  Thibet  cloth 
cloak  of  dark  mulberry  color;  and  my  fine  velvet 
bonnet  which  cost  only  $3.50  in  New  York.  It  is 
prettier  than  any  I  have  seen  here.  A  milliner 
here  said  that  it  would  have  cost  $8.00  in  Chicago 
but  I  think  that  is  exaggerated.  The  ladies  here 
wear  only  one  flounce  to  their  skirts.  Even  my 
third  best — the  brown-and-white  plaid  merino — has 
three  .  .  .  The  mud  here  is  so  bad  that  the  men 
wear  hip  boots  and  we  women  must  go  about  in 
two-wheeled  carts  that  sink  to  the  hubs  in  many 
places.  There  are  signs  stuck  up  in  the  mud  with 
the  warning,  'No  bottom  here'  .  .  .  Our  new  furni 
ture  has  come.  A  beautiful  flowered  red  and  green 


THE  GIRLS  15 

carpet  in  the  chamber  and  parlor.  When  the  fold 
ing  doors  are  open  the  stove  will  heat  both  rooms 
.  .  .  They  have  most  excellent  markets  in  this 
place.  We  can  get  meat  of  every  description  for 
four  cents  a  pound,  such  as  sausages,  venison,  beef,, 
pork — everything  except  fowls.  Of  fruit  there  is 
little.  I  saw  some  grapes  yesterday  in  the  market, 
all  powdered  over  with  sawdust.  They  had  come 
from  Spain.  They  made  my  mouth  water  .  .  . 
Every  day  great  prairie  schooners,  as  they  call 
them,,  go  by  the  house.  They  have  come  all  the 
way  from  the  East  ...  I  am  terrified  of  the  In 
dians  though  I  have  said  little  to  Isaac.  They  are 
very  dirty  and  not  at  all  noble  as  our  history  and 
geography  books  state  .  .  ." 

She  bore  Isaac  Thrift  two  children,  accomplish 
ing  the  feat  as  circumspectly  and  with  as  much  reti 
cence  as  is  possible  in  the  achievement  of  so  physical 
a  rite.  Girls,  both.  I  think  she  would  have  con 
sidered  a  man-child  indelicate. 

Charlotte  had  been  the  first  of  these  girls.  Carrie, 
the  second,  came  a  tardy  ten  years  later.  It  was 
a  time  and  a  city  of  strange  contradictions  and 
fluctuations.  Fortunes  were  made  in  the  boom  of 
1835  and  lost  in  the  panic  of  '37.  Chicago  was  a 
broken-down  speculative  shanty  village  one  day  and 
an  embryo  metropolis  the  next.  The  Firemen's 
Ball  was  the  event  of  the  social  season,  with  Engine 


16  THE  GIRLS 

No.  3,  glittering  gift  of  "Long  John"  Wentworth, 
set  in  the  upper  end  of  the  dance-hall  and  festooned 
with  flowers  and  ribbons.  All  the  worth-while 
beaux  of  the  town  belonged  to  the  volunteer  fire 
brigade.  The  names  of  Chicago's  firemen  of  1838 
or  '40,  if  read  aloud  to-day,  would  sound  like  the 
annual  list  of  box-holders  at  the  opera.  The  streets 
of  the  town  were  frequently  impassable;  servants 
almost  unknown;  quiltings  and  church  sociables 
noteworthy  events.  The  open  prairie,  just  beyond 
town,  teemed  with  partridges,  quail,  prairie  chicken. 
Fort  Dearborn,  deserted,  was  a  playground  for 
little  children.  Indians,  dirty,  blanketed,  saturnine, 
slouched  along  the  streets.  "Long  John"  Wentworth 
was  kinging  it  in  Congress.  Young  ladies  went  to 
balls  primly  gowned  in  dark-colored  merinos,  long- 
sleeved,  high-necked.  Little  girls  went  to  school 
in  bodices  low-cut  and  nearly  sleeveless;  toe-slip 
pers;  and  manifold  skirts  starched  to  stand  out 
like  a  ballerina's. 

These  stiffly  starched  skirts,  layer  on  layer,  first 
brought  romance  into  Charlotte  Thrift's  life.  She 
was  thirteen,  a  rather  stocky  little  girl,  not  too 
obedient  of  the  prim  maternal  voice  that  was  forever 
bidding  her  point  her  toes  out,,  hold  her  shoulders 
back  and  not  talk  at  table.  She  must  surely  have 
talked  at  table  this  morning,  or,  perhaps,  slouched 
her  shoulders  and  perversely  toed  in  once  safely  out 


THE  GIRLS  17 

of  sight  of  the  house,  because  she  was  late  for 
school.  The  horrid  realization  of  this  came  as 
Charlotte  reached  the  Rush  Street  ferry — a  crude 
ramshackle  affair  drawn  from  one  side  of  the  river 
to  the  other  with  ropes  pulled  by  hand.  Charlotte 
attended  Miss  Rapp's  school  on  the  North  Side 
though  the  Thrifts  lived  South.  This  makeshift 
craft  was  about  to  leave  the  south  shore  as  Char 
lotte,  her  tardiness  heavy  upon  her,  sighted  the 
river.  With  a  little  cry  and  a  rush  she  sped  down 
the  path,  leaped,,  slipped,  and  landed  just  short  of 
the  ferry  in  the  slimy  waters  of  the  Chicago  River. 
Landed  exactly  expresses  it.  Though,  on  sec 
ond  thought,  perhaps  settled  is  better.  Layer  on 
layer  of  stiffly  starched  skirts  sustained  her.  She 
had  fallen  feet  downward.  There  she  rested  on  the 
water,  her  skirts  spread  petal-like  about  her,  her 
toes,  in  their  cross-strapped  slippers,  no  doubt  point 
ing  demurely  downward.  She  looked  like  some 
weird  white  river-lily  afloat  on  its  pad  in  the  turbid 
stream.  Her  eyes  were  round  with  fright  beneath 
the  strongly  marked  black  brows.  Then,  suddenly 
and  quite  naturally,  she  screamed,  kicked  wildly, 
and  began  to  sink.  Sank,  in  fact.  It  had  all  hap 
pened  with  incredible  swiftness.  The  ferry  men 
had  scarcely  had  time  to  open  their  mouths  vacu 
ously.  Charlotte's  calliope  screams,  so  ominously 
muffled  now,  wakened  them  into  action.  But  be- 


18  THE  GIRLS 

fore  their  clumsy  wits  and  hands  had  seized  on 
YOipes  a  slim  black-and-white  line  cleft  the  water, 
'-disappeared,  and  reappeared  with  the  choking 
struggling  frantic  Charlotte,  very  unstarched  now 
and  utterly  unmindful  of  toes,  shoulders,  and  vocal 
restraint. 

The  black-and-white  line  had  been  young  Jesse 
Dick,  of  the  "Hardscrabble"  Dicks;  the  black  had 
ibeen  his  trousers,  the  white  his  shirt.  He  swam 
like  a  river  rat — which  he  more  or  less  was.  Of 
all  the  Chicago  male  inhabitants  to  which  Mrs. 
Thrift  would  most  have  objected  as  the  rescuer  of 
her  small  daughter,  this  lounging,  good-for-nothing 
young  Jesse  Dick  would  have  been  most  promi 
nently  ineligible.  Fortunately  (or  unfortunately) 
she  did  not  even  know  his  name  until  five  years 
later.  Charlotte  herself  did  not  know  it.  She  had 
had  one  frantic  glimpse  of  a  wet,  set  face  above 
hers,  but  it  had  been  only  a  flash  in  a  kaleidoscopic 
whole.  Young  Dick,  having  towed  her  ashore,  had 
plumped  her  down,  retrieved  his  coat,,  and  lounged 
off  unmissed  and  unrecognized  in  the  ensuing  hub 
bub.  The  rescue  accomplished,  his  seventeen-year- 
old  emotions  found  no  romantic  stirrings  in  the 
thought  of  this  limp  and  dripping  bundle  of  corded 
muslin,  bedraggled  pantalettes,  and  streaming, 
stringy  hair. 

Charlotte,  put  promptly  to  bed  of  course,  with 


THE  GIRLS  19 

a  pan  at  her  feet  and  flannel  on  her  chest  and  hot 
broth  administered  at  intervals — though  she  was  no 
whit  the  worse  for  her  ducking — lay  very  flat  and 
still  under  the  gay  calico  comfortable,,  her  hair  in 
two  damp  braids,  her  eyes  wide  and  thoughtful. 

"But  who  was  he?"  insisted  Mrs.  Thrift,  from 
the  foot  of  the  bed. 

And  "I  don't  know/'  replied  Charlotte  for  the 
dozenth  time. 

"What  did  he  look  like?"  demanded  Isaac  Thrift 
(hastily  summoned  from  his  place  of  business  so 
near  the  scene  of  the  mishap). 

"I — don't  know,"  replied  Charlotte.  And  that, 
bafflingly  enough,  was  the  truth.  Only  sometimes 
in  her  dreams  she  saw  his  face  again,  white,  set, 
and  yet  with  something  almost  merry  about  It. 
From  these  dreams  Charlotte  would  wake  shiver 
ing  deliciously.  But  she  never  told  them.  During 
the  next  five  years  she  never  went  to  a  dance,  a 
sleigh-ride,  walked  or  rode,  that  she  did  not  un 
consciously  scan  the  room  or  the  street  for  his 
face. 

Five  years  later  Charlotte  was  shopping  on  Lake 
Street  in  her  second-best  merino,  voluminously 
hooped.  Fortunately  (she  thought  later,  devoutly) 
she  had  put  on  her  best  bonnet  of  sage  green  velvet 
with  the  frill  of  blond  lace  inside  the  face.  A  frill 
of  blond  lace  is  most  flattering  when  set  inside  the 


20  THE  GIRLS 

bonnet.  She  had  come  out  of  her  father's  store 
and  was  bound  for  the  shop  of  Mr.  Potter  Palmer 
where,  the  week  before,  she  had  flirted  with  a  plum- 
colored  pelisse  and  had  known  no  happiness  since 
then.  She  must  feel  it  resting  on  her  own  sloping 
shoulders.  Of  course  it  was — but  then,  Mr.  Palmer, 
when  he  waited  on  you  himself,  often  came  down 
in  his  price. 

Chicago  sidewalks  were  crazy  wooden  affairs 
raised  high  on  rickety  stilts,  uneven,  full  of  cracks 
for  the  unwary,  now  five  steps  up,  now  six  steps 
down,  with  great  nails  raising  their  ugly  heads  to 
bite  at  unsuspecting  draperies.  Below  this  struc 
ture  lay  a  morass  of  mud,,  and  woe  to  him  who 
stepped  into  it. 

Along  this  precarious  eminence  Charlotte  moved 
with  the  gait  that  fashion  demanded;  a  mingling 
of  mince,  swoop  and  glide.  Her  mind  was  on  the 
plum  pelisse.  A  malicious  nail,  seeing  this,  bit  at 
her  dipping  and  voluminous  skirt  with  a  snick  and 
a  snarl.  R-r-rip !  it  went.  Charlotte  stepped  back 
with  a  little  cry  of  dismay — stepped  back  just  too 
far,  lost  her  footing  and  tumbled  over  the  edge  of 
the  high  boardwalk  into  the  muck  and  slime  below. 

For  the  second  time  in  five  years  Jesse  Dick's 
lounging  habit  served  a  good  purpose.  There  he 
was  on  Lake  Street  idly  viewing  the  world  when 
he  should  have  been  helping  to  build  it  as  were  the 


THE  GIRLS  21 

other  young  men  of  that  hard-working  city.  He 
heard  her  little  cry  of  surprise  and  fright;  saw 
her  topple,  a  hoop-skirted  heap,  into  the  mire.  Those 
same  ridiculous  hoops,  wire  traps  that  they  were, 
rendered  her  is  helpless  as  a  beetle  on  its  back. 
Jesse  Dick's  long  legs  sprang  to  her  rescue,  though 
he  could  not  suppress  a  smile  at  her  plight.  This 
before  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  face  set  off  by 
the  frill  of  blond  lace.  He  picked  her  up,  set  her 
on  her  feet — little  feet  in  cloth-gaitered  side  boots 
and  muddied  white  stockings — and  began  gently  to 
wipe  her  sadly  soiled  second-best  merino  with  his 
handkerchief,  with  his  shabby  coat  sleeve,  with  his 
coat-tail  and,  later,  with  his  heart. 

"Oh,  don't — please — you  mustn't — please — oh — " 
Charlotte  kept  murmuring,  the  color  high  in  her 
cheeks.  She  was  poised  at  that  dangerous  pinnacle 
between  tears  and  laughter ;  between  vexation  and 
mirth.  "Oh,  please- 

Her  vaguely  protesting  hand,  in  its  flutterings, 
brushed  his  blond  curly  head.  He  was  on  his  knees 
tidying  her  skirts  with  great  deftness  and  thorough 
ness.  There  was  about  the  act  an  intimacy  and 
a  boyish  delicacy,  too,  that  had  perhaps  startled  her 
into  her  maidenly  protest.  He  had  looked  up  at 
her  then,  as  she  bent  down. 

"Why,  you're  the  boy !"  gasped  Charlotte. 

"What  boy?"    No  wonder  he  failed  to  recognize 


22  THE  GIRLS 

her  as  she  did  him.  Her  mouth,  at  the  time  of  the 
rescue  five  years  before,  had  been  wide  open  to 
emit  burbles  and  strangled  coughs;  her  features 
had  been  distorted  with  fright. 

"The  boy  who  pulled  me  out  of  the  river.  Long 
ago.  I  was  going  to  school.  Rush  Street.  You 
jumped  in.  I  never  knew.  But  you're  the  boy.  I 
mean — of  course  you're  grown  now.  But  you  are, 
aren't  you?  The  boy,  I  mean.  The " 

She  became  silent,  looking  down  at  him,  her  face 
like  a  rose  in  the  blond  lace  frill.  He  was  still  on 
his  knees  in  the  mud,,  brushing  at  her  skirts  with 
a  gesture  that  now  was  merely  mechanical ;  brush 
ing,  as  we  know,  with  his  heart  in  his  hand. 

So,  out  of  the  slime  of  the  river  and  the  grime 
of  Lake  Street  had  flowered  their  romance. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  SHORT-LIVED  and  tragic  enough  romance. 
It  wasn't  that  the  Dicks  were  rowdy,  or  of 
evil  repute.  They  were  nobodies.  In  a  day  when 
social  lines  were  so  elastic  as  to  be  nearly  all-inclu 
sive  the  Dicks  were  miles  outside  the  pale.  In  the 
first  place,  they  lived  out  "Hardscrabble"  way.  That 
definitely  placed  them.  The  name  designated  a 
mean,  tumble-down  district  southwest  of  town,  in 
habited  by  poor  whites.  A  welter  of  mud,  curs., 
barefoot  babies,  slatternly  women,  shirt-sleeved 
men  lounging  slackly  against  open  doorways,  acrid 
pipe  in  mouth. 

Young  Jesse  Dick,  sprung  from  this  soil,  still  was 
alien  to  it;  a  dreamer;  a  fawn  among  wallowing 
swine ;  an  idler  with  nothing  of  the  villain  about  him 
and  the  more  dangerous  because  of  that.  Isaac 
Thrift  and  his  prim,  wife  certainly  would  sooner 
have  seen  their  daughter  Charlotte  dead  than  in 
volved  with  one  of  the  Dick  clan.  But  they  were 
unaware  of  the  very  existence  of  the  riffraff  Dicks. 
The  Thrifts  lived  in  two-story-and-basement  ele 
gance  on  Wabash  near  Madison,  and  kept  their  own 
cow. 

23 


24  THE  GIRLS 

There  was  a  fine  natural  forest  between  Clark 
and  Pine  Streets,  north,  on  the  lake  shore.  Along 
its  grassy  paths  lay  fallen  and  decayed  trees.  Here 
the  two  used  to  meet,  for  it  came  to  that.  Char 
lotte  had  an  Indian  pony  which  she  rode  daily. 
Sometimes  they  met  on  the  prairie  to  the  south  of 
town.  The  picture  of  Charlotte  in  the  sweeping 
skirt,  the  stiff  little  hat,  the  caressing  plume,  and 
the  rose  must  have  been  taken  at  about  this  time. 
There  was  in  her  face  a  glow,  a  bloom,,  a  radiance 
such  as  comes  to  a  woman — with  too  heavy  eye 
brows — who  is  beloved  for  the  first  time. 

It  was,  as  it  turned  out,  for  the  last  time  as  well. 
Charlotte  had  the  courage  for  clandestine  meetings 
in  spite  of  a  girlhood  hedged  about  with  prim  pickets 
of  propriety:  but  when  she  thought  of  open  revolt, 
of  appearing  with  Jesse  Dick  before  the  priggish 
mother  and  the  flinty  father,  she  shrank  and  cow 
ered  and  was  afraid.  To  them  she  was  little  more 
than  a  fresh  young  vegetable  without  emotions, 
thoughts,  or  knowledge  of  a  kind  which  they  would 
have  considered  unmaidenly. 

Charlotte  was  sitting  in  the  dining-room  window 
nook  one  day,  sewing.  It  was  a  pleasant  room  in 
which  to  sit  and  sew.  One  could  see  passers-by 
on  Madison  Street  as  well  as  Wabash,  and  even, 
by  screwing  around  a  little,  get  glimpses  of  State 
Street  with  its  great  trees  and  its  frame  cottages. 


THE  GIRLS  25 

Mrs.  Thrift,,  at  the  dining-room  table,  was  casting 
up  her  weekly  accounts.  She  closed  the  little  leather- 
bound  book  now  and  sat  back  with  a  sigh.  There 
was  a  worried  frown  between  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Thrift 
always  wore  a  worried  frown  between  her  eyes. 
She  took  wife-and-motherhood  hard.  She  would 
have  thought  herself  un wifely  and  unmotherly  to 
take  them  otherwise.  She  wore  her  frown  about 
the  house  as  she  did  her  cap — badge  of  housewife- 
liness. 

"I  declare/'  she  said  now,  "with  beef  six  cents 
the  pound — and  not  a  very  choice  cut,  either — a 
body  dreads  the  weekly  accounts." 

"M-m-m,"  murmured  Charlotte  remotely,  from 
the  miles  and  miles  that  separated  them. 

Mrs.  Thrift  regarded  her  for  a  moment,  tapping 
her  cheek  thoughtfully  with  the  quill  in  her  hand. 
Her  frown  deepened.  Charlotte  was  wearing  a  black 
sateen  apron,  very  full.  Her  hair,  drawn  straight 
back  from  her  face,  was  gathered  at  the  back  into 
a  chenille  net.  A  Garibaldi  blouse  completed  the 
hideousness  of  her  costume.  There  quivered  about 
her  an  aura — a  glow — a  roseate  something — that 
triumphed  over  apron,  net,  and  blouse.  Mrs. 
Thrift  sensed  this  without  understanding  it.  Her 
puzzlement  took  the  form  of  nagging. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Charlotte,  that  you  might  better 


26  THE  GIRLS 

be  employed  with  your  plain  sewing  than  with 
fancy  work  such  as  that." 

Charlotte's  black  sateen  lap  was  gay  with  scraps 
of  silk;  cherry  satin,  purple  velvet,,  green  taffetas, 
scarlet,  blue.  She  was  making  a  patchwork  silk 
quilt  of  an  intricate  pattern  (of  which  work  of  art 
more  later). 

"Yes,  indeed/'  said  she  now,  unfortunately.  And 
hummed  a  little  tune. 

Mrs.  Thrift  stood  up  with  a  great  rustling  of 
account-book  leaves,  and  of  skirts;  with  all  the 
stir  of  outraged  dignity.  "Well,  miss,,  I'll  thank 
you  to  pay  the  compliment  of  listening  when  I  talk 
to  you.  You  sit  there  smiling  at  nothing,  like  a 
simpleton,  I  do  declare!" 

"I  was  listening,  mother." 

"What  did  I  last  say?" 

"Why— beef— six— " 

"Humph!  What  with  patchwork  quilts  and  non 
sense  like  that,  and  out  on  your  pony  every  day, 
fine  or  not,  I  sometimes  wonder,  miss,,  what  you 
think  yourself.  Beef  indeed !" 

She  gathered  up  her  books  and  papers.  It  was 
on  her  tongue's  tip  to  forbid  the  afternoon's  ride. 
Something  occult  in  Charlotte  sensed  this.  She 
leaned  forward.  "Oh,  mother,  Mrs.  Perry's  pass 
ing  on  Madison  and  looking  at  the  house.  I  do 


THE  GIRLS  27 

believe  she's  coming  in.  Wait.  Yes,  she's  turning 
in.  I  think  I'll  just- 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  commanded  Mrs.  Thrift 
Charlotte  subsided.  She  bent  over  her  work  again, 
half  hidden  by  the  curtains  that  hung  stiffly  before 
the  entrance  to  the  window-nook.  You  could  hear 
Mrs.  Perry's  high  sharp  voice  in  speech  with  Cassie, 
the  servant.  "If  she's  in  the  dining-room  I'll  go 
right  in.  Don't  bother  about  the  parlor."  She 
came  sweeping  down  the  hall.  It  was  evident  that 
news  was  on  her  tongue's  tip.  Her  bonnet  was 
slightly  askew.  Her  hoops  swayed  like  a  hill  in  a 
quake.  Mrs.  Thrift  advanced  to  meet  her.  They 
shook  hands  at  arm's  length  across  the  billows  of 
their  outstanding  skirts. 

"Such  news,  Mrs.  Thrift!  What  do  you  think! 
After  all  these  years  Mrs.  Holcomb's  going  to  have 
a  ba- 

"My  dear!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Thrift,  hastily;  and 
raised  a  significant  eyebrow  in  the  direction  of  the 
slim  figure  bent  over  her  sewing  in  the  window- 
nook. 

Mrs.  Perry  coughed  apologetically.  "Oh!  I 
didn't  see " 

"Charlotte  dear,  leave  the  room." 

Charlotte  gathered  up  the  bits  of  silk  in  her 
apron.  Anxious  as  she  was  to  be  gone,  there  was 
still  something  in  the  manner  of  her  dismissal  that 


28  THE  GIRLS 

offended  her  new  sense  of  her  own  importance. 
She  swooped  and  stooped  for  bits  of  silk  and  satin, 
thrusting  them  into  her  apron  and  work-bag. 
Though  she  seemed  to  be  making  haste  her  prog 
ress  was  maddeningly  slow.  The  two  ladies,  eying 
her  with  ill-concealed  impatience,  made  polite  and 
innocuous  conversation  meanwhile. 

"And  have  you  heard  that  the  Empress  Eugenie 
has  decided  to  put  aside  her  crinoline?" 

Mrs.  Thrift  made  a  sound  that  amounted  to  a 
sniff.  "So  the  newspapers  said  last  year.  You 
remember  she  appeared  at  a  court  ball  without  a 
crinoline?  Yes.  Well,  fancy  how  ridiculous  she 
must  have  looked!  She  put  them  on  again  fast 
enough,  I  imagine,  after  that." 

"Ah,  but  they  do  say  she  didn't.  I  have  a  letter 
from  New  York  written  by  my  friend  Mrs.  Hollis- 
ter  who  comes  straight  from  Paris  and  she  says 
that  the  new  skirts  are  quite  flat  about  the — below 
the  waist,  to  the  knees " 

Charlotte  fled  the  room  dutifully  now,  with  a 
little  curtsey  for  Mrs.  Perry.  In  the  dark  passage 
way  she  stamped  an  unfilial  foot.  Then,  it  is  to  be 
regretted,,  she  screwed  her  features  into  one  of  those 
unadult  contortions  known  as  making  a  face.  Turn 
ing,  she  saw  regarding  her  from  the  second-story 
balustrade  her  eight-year-old  sister  Carrie.  Car 
rie,  ten  years  her  sister's  junior,  never  had  been 


THE  GIRLS  29 

late  to  school;  never  had  fallen  into  the  Chicago 
River,  nor  off  a  high  wooden  sidewalk;  always 
turned  her  toes  out ;  held  her  shoulders  like  a  Hes 


sian. 

te 


I  saw  you!"  cried  this  true  daughter  of  her 
mother. 

Charlotte,  mounting  the  stairs  to  her  own  room, 
swept  past  this  paragon  with  such  a  disdainful 
swishing  of  skirts,  apron,  and  squares  of  bright- 
colored  silk  stuff  as  to  create  quite  a  breeze.  She 
even  dropped  one  of  the  gay  silken  bits,,  saw  it 
flutter  to  the  ground  at  her  tormentor's  feet,  and 
did  not  deign  to  pick  it  up.  Carrie  swooped  for  it. 
"You  dropped  a  piece."  She  looked  at  it.  "It's 
the  orange-colored  silk  one!"  (Destined  to  be  the 
quilt's  high  note  of  color.)  "Finding's  keeping." 
She  tucked  it  into  her  apron  pocket.  Charlotte  en 
tered  her  own  room.  "I  saw  you,  miss."  Char 
lotte  slammed  her  chamber  door  and  locked  it. 

She  was  not  as  magnificently  aloof  and  uncon 
cerned  as  she  seemed.  She  knew  the  threat  in  the 
impish  Carrie's  "I  saw  you."  In  the  Thrift  house 
hold  a  daughter  who  had  stamped  a  foot  and 
screwed  up  a  face  in  contempt  of  maternal  author 
ity  did  not  go  unpunished.  Once  informed,  an  ex 
planation  would  be  demanded.  How  could  Char 
lotte  explain  that  one  who  has  been  told  almost 
daily  for  three  weeks  that  she  is  the  most  enchant- 


30  THE  GIRLS 

ing,  witty,  beauteous,  and  intelligent  woman  in  the 
world  naturally  resents  being  ignominiously  dis 
missed  from  a  room,  like  a  chit. 

That  night  at  supper  she  tried  unsuccessfully  to 
appear  indifferent  and  at  ease  under  Carrie's  round 
unblinking  stare  of  malice.  Carrie  began: 

"Mama,,  what  did  Mrs.  Perry  have  to  tell  you 
when  she  came  calling  this  afternoon?" 

"Nothing  that  would  interest  you,  my  pet.  You 
haven't  touched  your  potato." 

"Would  it  interest  Charlotte?" 

"No." 

"Is  that  why  you  sent  her  out  of  the  room?" 

"Yes.     Now  eat  your  p " 

"Charlotte  didn't  like  being  sent  out  of  the  room,, 
did  she?  H'm,  mama?" 

"Isaac,  will  you  speak  to  that  child.  I  don't  know 
what " 

Charlotte's  face  was  scarlet.  She  knew.  Her 
father  would  speak  sternly  to  the  too  inquisitive 
Carrie.  That  crafty  one  would  thrust  out  a  moist 
and  quivering  nether  lip  and,  with  tears  dropping 
into  her  uneaten  potato,  snivel,  "But  I  only  wanted 
to  know  because  Charlotte — "  and  out  would  come 
the  tale  of  Charlotte's  foot-stamping  and  face-mak 
ing. 

But  Isaac  Thrift  never  framed  the  first  chiding 
sentence;  and  Carrie  got  no  further  than  the  thrust- 


THE  GIRLS  31 

ing  out  of  the  lip.  For  the  second  time  that  day 
news  appeared  in  the  form  of  a  neighbor.  A  man 
this  time,  one  Abner  Rathburn.  His  news  was  no 
mere  old-wives'  gossip  of  births  and  babies.  He 
told  it,,  white-faced.  Fort  Sumter  had  been  fired 
on.  War ! 

Chicago's  interest  in  the  soldiery,  up  to  now,  had 
been  confined  to  that  ornamental  and  gayly  capari 
soned  group  known  as  Colonel  Ellsworth's  Zouaves. 
In  their  brilliant  uniforms  these  gave  exhibition 
drills,  flashing  through  marvelous  evolutions 
learned  during  evenings  of  practice  in  a  vacant  hall 
above  a  little  brick  store  near  Rush  Street  bridge. 
They  had  gone  on  grand  tours  through  the  East, 
as  well.  The  illustrated  papers  had  had  their  pic 
tures.  Now  their  absurd  baggy  trousers  and  their 
pert  little  jackets  and  their  brilliant-hued  sashes 
took  on  a  new,  grim  meaning.  Off  they  trotted, 
double-quick,  to  Donelson  and  death,,  most  of  them. 
Off  went  the  boys  of  that  socially  elect  group  be 
longing  to  the  Fire  Engine  Company.  Off  went 
brothers,  sons,  fathers.  Off  went  Jesse  Dick  from 
out  Hardscrabble  way,  and  fought  his  brief  fight, 
too,  at  Donelson,  with  weapons  so  unfit  and  inef 
fectual  as  to  be  little  better  than  toys;  and  lost. 
But  just  before  he  left,,  Charlotte,  frantic  with  fear, 
apprehension  and  thwarted  love  publicly  did  that 
which  branded  her  forever  in  the  eyes  of  her 


32  THE  GIRLS 

straitlaced  little  world.  Or  perhaps  her  little 
world  would  have  understood  and  forgiven  her  had 
her  parents  shown  any  trace  of  understanding  or 
forgiveness. 

In  all  their  meetings  these  two  young  things — 
the  prim  girl  with  the  dash  of  daring  in  her  and 
the  boy  who  wrote  verses  to  her  and  read  them 
with  telling  effect,  quite  as  though  they  had  not 
sprung  from  the  mire  of  Hardscrabble — had  never 
once  kissed  or  even  shyly  embraced.  Their  hands 
had  met  and  clung.  Touching  subterfuges.  "That's 
a  funny  ring  you  wear.  Let's  see  it.  My,  how 
little!  It  won't  go  on  any  of  my — no,  sir!  Not 
even  this  one."  Their  eyes  had  spoken.  His  fin 
gers  sometimes  softly  touched  the  plume  that 
drooped  from  her  stiff  little  hat.  When  he  helped 
her  mount  the  Indian  pony  perhaps  he  pressed 
closer  in  farewell  than  that  fiery  little  steed's  hoof 
quite  warranted.  But  that  was  all.  He  was  over- 
conscious  of  his  social  inferiority.  Years  of  nar 
row  nagging  bound  her  with  bands  of  steel  riveted 
with  turn-your-toes-out,  hold-your-shoulders-back, 
you-mustn't-play-with-them,,  ladylike,  ladylike. 

A  week  after  Sumter,,  "I've  enlisted,"  he  told  her. 

"Of  course,"  Charlotte  had  replied,  dazedly. 
Then,  in  sudden  realization,  "When?  When?" 

He  knew  what  she  meant.  "Right  away  I 
reckon.  They  said — right  away."  She  looked  at 


THE  GIRLS  33 

him  mutely.  "Charlotte,  I  wish  you'd — I  wish  your 
father  and  mother — I'd  like  to  speak  to  them — I 
mean  about  us — me."  There  was  little  of  Hard- 
scrabble  about  him  as  he  said  it. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't.  I'm  afraid!  I'm  afraid!" 
He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,,  poking  about  with 
a  dried  stick  in  the  leaves  and  loam  and  grass  at 
their  feet  as  they  sat  on  a  fallen  tree-trunk,  just 
as  for  years  and  years  despairing  lovers  have  poked 
in  absent-minded  frenzy;  digging  a  fork's  prong 
into  the  white  defenceless  surface  of  a  tablecloth; 
prodding  the  sand  with  a  cane;  rooting  into  the 
ground  with  an  umbrella  ferrule ;  making  meaning 
less  marks  on  gravel  paths. 

At  last:  "I  don't  suppose  it  makes  any  real  dif 
ference;  but  the  Dicks  came  from  Holland.  I  mean 
a  long  time  ago.  With  Hendrik  Hudson.  And  my 
great-great-grandmother  was  a  Pomroy.  You 
wouldn't  believe,  would  you?  that  a  shiftless  lot 
like  us  could  come  from  stock  like  that.  I  guess  it's 

run  thin.     Of  course  my  mother "  he  stopped. 

She  put  a  timid  hand  on  his  arm  then,  and  he  made 
as  though  to  cover  it  with  his  own,  but  did  not. 
He  went  on  picking  at  the  ground  with  his  bit  of 
stick.  "Sometimes  when  my  father's — if  he's  been 
drinking  too  much — imagines  he's  one  of  his  own 
ancestors.  Sometimes  it's  a  Dutch  ancestor  and 
sometimes  it's  an  English  one,  but  he's  always  very 


34  THE  GIRLS 

magnificent  about  it,  and  when  he's  like  that  even 
my  mother  can't — can't  scream  him  down.  You 
should  hear  then  what  he  thinks  of  all  you  people 
who  live  in  fine  brick  houses  on  Wabash  and  on 
Michigan,  and  over  on  the  North  Side.  My  brother 
Pom  says " 

"Pom?" 

"Pomroy.  Pomroy  Dick,,  you  see.  Both  the 
.  .  .  I've  been  thinking  that  perhaps  if  your  father 
and  mother  knew  about — I  mean  we're  not — that 
is  my  father " 

She  shook  her  head  gently.  "It  isn't  that.  You 
see,  it's  business  men.  Those  who  have  stores  or 
real  estate  and  are  successful.  Or  young  lawyers. 
That's  the  kind  father  and  mother " 

They  were  not  finishing  their  sentences.  Grop 
ing  for  words.  Fearful  of  hurting  each  other. 

He  laughed.  "I  guess  there  won't  be  much  choice 
among  the  lot  of  us  when  this  is  over." 

"Why,  Jesse,  it'll  only  last  a  few  months — two 
or  three.  Father  says  it'll  only  last  a  few  months. 

"It  doesn't  take  that  long  to " 

"To  what?" 

"Nothing." 

He  was  whisked  away  after  that.  Charlotte  saw 
him  but  once  again.  That  once  was  her  undoing. 
She  did  not  even  know  the  time  set  for  his  going. 
He  had  tried  to  get  word  to  her,  and  had  failed, 


THE  GIRLS  35 

somehow.  With  her  father  and  mother,  Charlotte 
was  one  of  the  crowd  gathered  about  the  Court 
House  steps  to  hear  Jules  Lombard  sing  The  Bat 
tle  Cry  of  Freedom.  George  Root,,  of  Chicago, 
George,  whom  they  all  knew,  had  written  it.  The 
ink  was  scarcely  dry  on  the  manuscript.  The 
crowds  gathered  in  the  street  before  the  Court 
House.  Soon  they  were  all  singing  it.  Suddenly, 
through  the  singing,  like  a  dull  throb,  throb,  came 
the  sound  of  thudding  feet.  Soldiers.  With  a  great 
surge  the  crowd  turned  its  face  toward  the  street. 
Still  singing.  Here  they  came.  In  marching  order. 
Their  uniforms  belied  the  name.  Had  they  been 
less  comic  they  would  have  been  less  tragic.  They 
were  equipped  with  muskets  altered  from  flintlocks ; 
with  Harper's  Ferry  and  Deneger  rifles ;  with  horse 
pistols  and  musketoons — deadly  sounding  but  ridic 
ulous.  With  these  they  faced  Donelson.  They 
were  hardly  more  than  boys.  After  them  trailed 
women,  running  alongside,  dropping  back  breath 
less.  Old  women,  mothers.  Young  women,  sweet 
hearts,  wives.  This  was  no  time  for  the  proprieties, 
for  reticence. 

They  were  passing.  The  first  of  them  had  passed. 
Then  Charlotte  saw  him.  His  face  flashed  out  at 
her  from  among  the  lines.  His  face,  under  the 
absurd  pancake  hat,  was  white,  set.  And  oh,  how 
young!  He  was  at  the  end  of  his  line.  Charlotte 


36  THE  GIRLS 

watched  him  coming.  She  felt  a  queer  tingling  in 
her  fingertips,  in  the  skin  around  her  eyes,  in  her 
throat.  Then  a  great  surge  of  fear,  horror,  fright, 
and  love  shook  her.  He  was  passing.  Someone, 
herself  and  yet  not  herself,  was  battling  a  way 
through  the  crowd,  was  pushing,  thrusting  with 
elbows,  shoulders.  She  gained  the  roadway.  She 
ran,  stumblingly.  She  grasped  his  arm.  "You 
didn't  let  me  know!  You  didn't  let  me  know!" 
Someone  took  hold  of  her  elbow — someone  in  the 
crowd  on  the  sidewalk — but  she  shook  them  off. 
She  ran  on  at  his  side.  Came  the  double-quick 
command.  With  a  little  cry  she  threw  her  arms 
about  him  and  kissed  him.  Her  lips  were  parted 
like  a  child's.  Her  face  was  distorted  with  weep 
ing.  There  was  something  terrible  about  her  not 
caring;  not  covering  it.  "You  didn't  let  me  know! 
YOU  didn't  let  me  know!"  The  ranks  broke  into 
double-quick.  She  ran  with  them  a  short  minute, 
breathlessly,  sobbing. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  a  submissive  enough  little  figure  that  they 
had  hustled  home  through  the  crowded  streets, 
up  the  front  stoop  and  into  the  brick  house  on  Wa- 
bash  Avenue.  Crushed  and  rumpled. 

The  cruelest  edge  of  the  things  they  said  to  her 
was  mercifully  dulled  by  the  time  it  penetrated  her 
numbed  consciousness.  She  hardly  seemed  to  hear 
them.  At  intervals  she  sobbed.  It  was  more  than 
a  sob.  It  was  a  dry  paroxysm  that  shook  her  whole 
body  and  jarred  her  head.  Her  handkerchief,  a 
wet  gray  ball,  she  opened,  and  began  to  stare  at  its 
neatly  hemstitched  border,  turning  it  corner  for 
corner,  round  and  round. 

Who  was  he?    Who  was  he? 

She  told  them. 

At  each  fresh  accusation  she  seemed  to  shrink 
into  smaller  compass;  to  occupy  less  space  within 
the  circle  of  her  outstanding  hoop-skirts,  until  finally 
she  was  just  a  pair  of  hunted  eyes  in  a  tangle  of 
ringlets,  handkerchief,  and  crinoline.  She  caught 
fragments  of  what  they  were  saying  .  .  .  ruined 
her  life  .  .  .  brought  down  disgrace  .  .  .  entire 

37 


38  THE  GIRLS 

family  .  .  .  never  hold  head  up  ...  common  lout 
like  a  Dick  .  .  .  Dick!  .  .  .  Dick!  .  .  . 

Once  Charlotte  raised  her  head  and  launched  a 
feeble  something  that  sounded  like  "...  Hendrik 
Hudson,"  but  it  was  lost  in  the  torrent  of  talk.  It 
appeared  that  she  had  not  only  ruined  herself  and 
brought  life-long  disgrace  upon  her  parents'  hith 
erto  unsullied  name,  but  she  had  made  improbable 
any  future  matrimonial  prospects  for  her  sister  Car 
rie — then  aged  eight. 

That,  unfortunately,  struck  Charlotte  as  being 
humorous.  Racked  though  she  was,  one  remote  cor 
ner  of  her  mind's  eye  pictured  the  waspish  little 
Carrie,  in  pinafore  and  strapped  slippers,  languish 
ing  for  love,  all  forlorn — Carrie,  who  still  stuck 
her  tongue  out  by  way  of  repartee.  Charlotte  gig 
gled  suddenly,  quite  without  meaning  to.  Hys 
teria,  probably.  At  this  fresh  exhibition  of  shame- 
lessness  her  parents  were  aghast. 

"Well!  And  you  can  laugh!"  shouted  Isaac 
Thrift  through  the  soft  and  unheeded  susurrus  of 
his  wife's  Sh-sh-sh !  "As  if  I  hadn't  enough  trou 
ble,  with  this  war" — it  sounded  like  a  private  per 
sonal  grievance — "  and  business  what  it  is,  and  real 
estate  practically  worth " 

"Sh-sh-sh!  Carrie  will  hear  you.  The  child 
mustn't  know  of  this." 

"Know !    Everyone  in  town  knows  by  now.    My 


THE  GIRLS  39 

daughter  running  after  a  common  soldier  in  the 
streets — a  beggar — worse  than  a  beggar — and  kiss 
ing  him  like  a — like  a — — " 

Mrs.  Thrift  interrupted  with  mournful  hastiness. 
'  We  must  send  her  away.  East.  For  a  little  visit. 
tThat  would  be  best,  for  a  few  months." 

At  that  Isaac  Thrift  laughed  a  rather  terrible 
laugh.  "Away!  That  would  give  them  a  fine 
chance  to  talk.  Away  indeed,  madam!  A  few 
months,  h'm?  Ha!" 

Mrs.  Thrift  threw  out  her  palms  as  though  ward 
ing  off  a  blow.  "Isaac!  You  don't  mean  they'd 
think— Isaac !" 

Charlotte  regarded  them  both  with  wide,  uncom 
prehending  eyes. 

Her  mother  looked  at  her.  Charlotte  raised  her 
own  tear-drenched  face  that  was  so  mutely  misera 
ble,  so  stricken,  so  dumbly  questioning.  Marred  as 
it  was,  and  grief -ravaged,  Mrs.  Thrift  seemed  still 
to  find  there  something  that  relieved  her.  She  said 
more  gently,  perhaps,  than  in  any  previous  ques 
tioning  : 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Charlotte?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it.     I  couldn't  help  it." 

Isaac  Thrift  3norted  impatiently.  Hetty  Thrift 
compressed  her  lips  a  little  and  sighed.  "Yes,  but 
why  did  you  do  it,  Charlotte?  Why?  You  have 


40  THE  GIRLS 

been  brought  up  so  carefully.  How  could  you  do 
it?" 

Now,  the  answer  that  lay  ready  in  Charlotte's 
mind  was  one  that  could  have  explained  everything. 
And  yet  it  would  have  explained  nothing;  at  least 
nothing  to  Hetty  and  Isaac  Thrift.  The  natural 
reply  on  Charlotte's  tongue  was  simply,  "Because  I 
love  him."  But  the  Thrifts  did  not  speak  of  love. 
It  was  not  a  ladylike  word.  There  were  certain 
words  which  delicacy  forbade.  "Love"  was  one  of 
them.  From  the  manner  in  which  they  shunned  it 
— shrank  from  the  very  mention  of  it — you  might 
almost  have  thought  it  an  obscenity. 

Mrs.  Thrift  put  a  final  question.  She  had  to. 
"Had  you  ever  kissed  him  before?" 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Charlotte  so  earnestly  that  they 
could  not  but  believe.  Then,  quiveringly,  as  one 
bereaved,  cheated.  "Oh,  no!  No!  Never!  Not 
once  .  .  .  Not  once." 

The  glance  that  Mrs.  Thrift  shot  at  her  husband 
then  was  a  mingling  of  triumph  and  relief. 

Isaac  Thrift  and  his  wife  did  not  mean  to  be 
hard  and  cruel.  They  had  sprung  from  stern  stock. 
Theirs  was  the  narrow  middle-class  outlook  of 
members  of  a  small  respectable  community.  Ac 
cording  to  the  standards  of  that  community  Char 
lotte  Thrift  had  done  an  outrageous  thing.  War, 
in  that  day,  was  a  grimmer,  though  less  bloody  and 


THE  GIRLS  41 

wholesale,  business  than  it  is  to-day.  An  army 
whose  marching  song-  is  Where  Do  We  Go  From 
Here?  attaches  small  significance  to  the  passing 
kiss  of  an  hysterical  flapper,  whether  the  object 
of  the  kiss  be  buck  private  or  general.  But  an 
army  that  finds  vocal  expression  in  The  Battle 
Cry  of  Freedom  and  John  Brown's  Body  is 
likely  to  take  its  bussing  seriously.  The  publicly 
kissed  soldier  on  his  way  to  battle  was  the  publicly 
proclaimed  property  of  the  kissee.  And  there  in 
front  of  the  Court  House  steps,  in  full  sight  of 
her  world — the  Addison  Canes,  the  Thomas  Hoi- 
combs,  the  Lewis  Fullers,  the  Clapps — Charlotte 
Thrift,,  daughter  of  Isaac  Thrift,  had  run  after, 
had  thrown  her  arms  about,  and  had  kissed  a  young 
man  so  obscure,  so  undesirable,  so  altogether  an 
unfitting  object  for  a  gently-bred  maiden's  kisses 
(public  or  private)  as  to  render  valueless  her  kisses 
in  future. 

Of  Charlotte's  impulsive  act  her  father  and 
mother  made  something  repulsive  and  sinister.  She 
was  made  to  go  everywhere,  but  was  duennaed  like 
a  naughty  Spanish  princess.  Her  every  act  was 
remarked.  Did  she  pine  she  was  berated  and  told 
to  rouse  herself;  did  she  laugh  she  was  frowned 
down.  Her  neat  little  escritoire  frequently  be 
trayed  traces  of  an  overhauling  by  suspicious  alien 
fingers.  There  was  little  need  of  that  after  the 


42  THE  GIRLS 

first  few  days.  The  news  of  Jesse  Dick's  death  at 
Donelson  went  almost  unnoticed  but  for  two  Chi 
cago  households — one  out  Hardscrabble  way,  one 
on  Wabash  Avenue.  It  was  otherwise  as  unim 
portant  as  an  uprooted  tree  in  the  path  of  an  ava 
lanche  that  destroys  a  village.  At  Donelson  had 
fallen  many  sons  of  Chicago's  pioneer  families; 
young  men  who  were  to  have  carried  on  the  future 
business  of  the  city ;  boys  who  had  squired  its  daugh 
ters  to  sleigh-rides,  to  dances,  to  church  sociables 
and  horseback  parties;  who  had  drilled  with  Ells 
worth's  famous  Zouaves.  A  Dick  of  Hardscrabble 
could  pass  unnoticed  in  this  company. 

There  came  to  Charlotte  a  desperate  and  quite 
natural  desire  to  go  to  his  people ;  to  see  his  mother ; 
to  talk  with  his  father.  But  she  never  did.  In 
stinctively  her  mother  sensed  this  (perhaps,,  after 
all,  she  had  been  eighteen  herself,  once)  and  by 
her  increased  watchfulness  made  Hardscrabble  as 
remote  and  unattainable  as  Heaven. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Charlotte?" 

"Just  out  for  a  breath  of  air,  mother." 

"Take  Carrie  with  you." 

"Oh,  mother,  I  don't  want " 

"Take  Carrie  with  you." 

She  stopped  at  home. 

She  had  no  tangible  thing  over  which  to  mourn ; 
not  one  of  those  bits  of  paper  or  pasteboard  or 


THE  GIRLS  43 

linen  or  metal  over  which  to  keen;  nothing  to  hold 
in  her  two  hands,  or  press  to  her  lips  or  wear  in 
her  bosom.  She  did  not  even  possess  one  of  those 
absurd  tintypes  of  the  day  showing  her  soldier  in 
wrinkled  uniform  and  wooden  attitude  against  a 
mixed  background  of  chenille  drapery  and  Ver 
sailles  garden.  She  had  only  her  wound  and  her 
memory  and  perhaps  these  would  have  healed  and 
grown  dim,  had  not  Isaac  Thrift  and  his  wife  so 
persistently  rubbed  salt  in  the  one  and  prodded  the 
other.  After  all,  she  was  little  more  than  eighteen, 
and  eighteen  does  not  break  so  readily.  If  they  had 
made  light  of  it  perhaps  she  would  soon  have  lifted 
her  head  again  and  even  cast  about  for  consolation. 

"Moping  again!" 

"I'm  not  moping,  father." 

"What  would  you  call  it  then?" 

"Why,  I'm  just  sitting  by  the  window  in  the  dusk. 
I  often  do.  Even  before — before " 

"There's  enough  and  to  spare  for  idle  hands  to 
do,  I  dare  say.  Haven't  you  seen  to-day's  paper 
nor  heard  of  what's  happened  again  at  Manassas 
that  you  can  sit  there  like  that!" 

She  knew  better  than  to  explain  that  for  her 
Jessie  Dick  died  again  with  the  news  of  each  fresh 
battle. 

She  became  curiously  silent  for  so  young  a  girl. 
During  those  four  years  she  did  her  share  with 


44  THE  GIRLS 

the  rest  of  them;  scraped  lint,  tore  and  rolled  ban 
dages,  made  hospital  garments,  tied  comforters, 
knitted  stockings  and  mittens,,  put  up  fruit  and  jel 
lies  and  pickles  for  the  soldiers.  Chicago  was  a 
construction  camp.  Regiments  came  marching  in 
from  all  the  states  north.  Camp  Douglas,  south 
of  Thirty-first  Street,  was  at  first  thick  with  tents, 
afterward  with  wooden  barracks.  Charlotte  even 
helped  in  the  great  Sanitary  Fairs  that  lasted  a  week 
or  more.  You  would  have  noticed  no  difference  be 
tween  this  girl  and  the  dozens  of  others  who  chirped 
about  the  flag-decked  booths.  But  there  was  a  dif 
ference.  That  which  had  gone  from  her  was  an 
impalpable  something  difficult  to  name.  Only  if 
you  could  have  looked  from  her  face  to  that  of  the 
girl  of  the  old  photograph— that  girl  in  the  sweep 
ing  habit,  with  the  plume,  and  the  rose  held  care 
lessly  in  one  hand— you  might  have  known.  The 
glow,  the  bloom,  the  radiance — gone. 

People  forget,,  gradually.  After  all,  there  was 
so  little  to  remember.  Four  years  of  war  change 
many  things,  including  perspective.  Occasionally 
some  one  said,  "Wasn't  there  something  about  that 
older  Thrift  girl?  Charlotte,  isn't  it?  Yes.  Wasn't 
she  mixed  up  with  a  queer  person,  or  something?" 

"Charlotte  Thrift!  Why,  no!  There  hasn't  been 
a  more  self-sacrificing  worker  in  the  whole — wait 
a  minute.  Now  that  you  speak  of  it,  I  do  believe 


THE  GIRLS  45 

there  was — let's  see — in  love  with  a  boy  her  folks 
didn't  approve  and  made  some  kind  of  public  scene, 
but  just  what  it  was " 

But  Isaac  and  Hetty  Thrift  did  not  forget.  Nor 
Charlotte.  Sometimes,,  in  their  treatment  of  her, 
you  would  have  thought  her  still  the  eighteen-year- 
old  innocent  of  the  photograph.  When  Black  Crook 
came  to  the  new  Crosby  Opera  House  in  1870,  scan 
dalizing  the  community  and  providing  endless  food 
for  feminine  (and  masculine)  gossip,  Charlotte 
still  was  sent  from  the  room  to  spare  her  maidenly 
blushes,  just  as  though  the  past  ten  years  had  never 
been. 

"I  hear  they  wear  tights,  mind  .you,  without 
skirts!" 

"Not  all  the  way!'5 

"Not  an  inch  of  skirt.  Just — ah — trunks  I  be 
lieve  they  call  them.  A  horrid  word  in  itself." 

"Well,  really,  I  don't  know  what  the  world's  com 
ing  to.  Shouldn't  you  think  that  after  the  suffer 
ing  and  privation  of  this  dreadful  war  we  would 
all  turn  to  higher  things  ?" 

But  Mrs.  Thrift's  caller  shook  her  head  so  em 
phatically  that  her  long  gold  filigree  earrings 
pranced.  "Ah,,  but  they  do  say  a  wave  of  immor 
ality  always  follows  a  war.  The  reaction  it's  called. 
That  is  the  word  dear  Dr.  Swift  used  in  his  ser 
mon  last  Sunday. 


46  THE  GIRLS 

"Reactions  are  all  very  well  and  good/'  retorted 
Mrs.  Thrift,  tartly,  "but  they  don't  excuse  tights, 
I  hope." 

Her  visitor's  face  lighted  up  eagerly  and  un- 
beautifully.  She  leaned  still  closer.  "I  hear  that 
this  Eliza  Weathersby,  as  she's  called,  plays  the 
part  of  Stalacta  in  a  pale  blue  bodice  all  glittering 
with  silver  passamenterie ;  pale  blue  satin  trunks, 
mind  you !  And  pale  blue  tights  with  a  double  row 
of  tiny  buttons  all  down  the  side  of  the  1 " 

Again,  as  ten  years  before,  Mrs.  Thrift  raised 
signaling  eyebrows.  She  emitted  an  artificial  and 
absurd,  "Ahem!"  Then — "Charlotte,  run  upstairs 
and  help  poor  Carrie  with  her  English  exercise." 

"She's  doing  sums,  mother.  I  saw  her  at  them 
not  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Then  tell  her  to  put  her  sums  aside.  Do  you 
know,  dear  Mrs.  Strapp,  Carrie  is  quite  amazing 
at  sums,  but  I  tell  her  she  is  not  sent  to  Miss  Tait's 
finishing  school  under  heavy  expense  to  learn  to  do 
sums.  But  she  actually  likes  them.  Does  them  by 
way  of  amusement.  Can  add  a  double  column  in 
her  head,  just  like  her  father.  But  her  English  ex 
ercise  is  always  a  sorry  affair  .  .  .  M-m-m-m 
.  .  .  There,  now,  you  were  saying  tiny  buttons 
down  the  side  of  the  leg "  Charlotte  had  gone. 

When  the  war  ended  Charlotte  was  twenty-two. 
An  unwed  woman  of  twenty- two  was  palpably  over- 


THE  GIRLS  47 

fastidious  or  undesirable.  Twenty-five  was  the 
sere  and  withered  leaf.  And  soon  Charlotte  was 
twenty-five — twenty-eight — thirty.  Done  for. 

The  patchwork  silk  quilt,  laid  aside  unfinished  in 
'6 1,  was  taken  up  again  in  '65.  It  became  quite 
famous;  a  renowned  work  of  art.  Visitors  who 
came  to  the  house  asked  after  it.  "And  how  is 
the  quilt  getting  on,  dear  Charlotte?"  as  a  novelist 
is  sounded  about  an  opus  with  which  he  is  strug 
gling,  or  a  painter  his  canvas.  Mrs.  Hannan,  the 
Lake  Street  milliner,  saved  all  her  pieces  for  Char 
lotte.  Often  there  was  a  peck  of  them  at  a  time. 
The  quilt  was  patterned  in  blocks.  Charlotte,  very 
serious,  would  explain  to  the  caller  the  plan  of  the 
block  upon  which  she  was  at  the  moment  engaged. 

"This  one  has  a  purple  satin  center,  you  see.  I 
always  think  purple  is  so  rich,  don't  you?  Then 
the  next  row  will  be  white  uncut  velvet.  Doesn't 
it  have  a  sumptuous  sound!  Next  blue  velvet  and 
the  last  row  orange-colored  silk."  (No;  not  the 
same  piece.  Carrie  had  never  relinquished  her 
booty.)  "Now,  this  next  block  is  to  be  quite  gay. 
It  is  almost  my  favorite.  Cherry  satin  center — 
next,  white  velvet  again — next,  green  velvet — and 
last,,  pink  satin.  Don't  you  think  it  will  be  sweet ! 
I  can  scarcely  wait  until  I  begin  that  block." 

The  winged  sweep  of  the  fine  black  brows  was 
ruffled  by  a  frown  of  earnest  concentration  as  she 


48  THE  GIRLS 

bent  intently  over  the  rags  and  scraps  of  shimmer 
ing  stuffs.  Her  cheated  fingers  smoothed  and  ca 
ressed  the  satin  surfaces  as  tenderly  as  though  they 
lingered  on  a  baby's  cheek. 

When,  finally,  it  was  finished — lined  with  turkey 
red  and  bound  with  red  ribbon — Charlotte  exhib 
ited  it  at  the  Fair,  following  much  persuasion  by 
her  friends.  It  took  first  prize  among  twenty-five 
silk  quilts.  A  day  of  great  triumph  for  Charlotte 
Thrift.  The  prize  was  a  basket  worth  fully  eight 
dollars. 


CHAPTER  IV 

T  ¥  THEN  Charlotte  was  thirty  Carrie — twenty — • 
V  V  married.  After  all,  the  innocent  little  indis 
cretion  which  had  so  thoroughly  poisoned  Char 
lotte's  life  was  not  to  corrupt  Carrie's  matrimonial 
future,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Thrift's  mournful  predic 
tion.  Carrie,  whose  philosophy  of  life  was  based 
on  that  same  finding's-keeping  plan  with  which  she 
had  filched  the  bit  of  orange  silk  from  her  sister 
so  many  years  before,  married  Samuel  Payson,, 
junior  member  of  the  firm  of  Thrift  and  Payson, 
Real  Estate,  Bonds  and  Mortages.  Charlotte,  it 
may  be  remembered,  had  disdained  to  pick  up  the 
scrap  of  orange  silk  on  which  Carrie  had  swooped. 
Just  so  with  Samuel  Payson. 

Samuel  Payson  was  destined  to  be  a  junior  part 
ner.  Everything  about  him  was  deferential,  sub 
servient.  The  very  folds  of  his  clothes  slanted  away 
from  you.  He  was  as  oblique  and  evasive  as  Isaac 
Thrift  was  upright  and  forthright.  In  conversa 
tion  with  you  he  pronounced  your  name  at  frequent- 
intervals.  Charlotte  came  to  dread  it :  "Yes,  Miss 
Charlotte  ...  Do  you  think  so,,  Miss  Charlotte? 

49 


50  THE  GIRLS 

.  .  .  Sit  here,  Miss  Charlotte  .  .  ."  It  was  like  a 
too-intimate  hand  on  your  shrinking  arm. 

The  fashion  for  men  of  parting  the  hair  in  the 
middle  had  just  come  in.  Samuel  Payson  parted 
his  from  forehead  to  nape  of  neck.  In  some  mys 
terious  way  it  gave  to  the  back  of  his  head  an  alert 
facial  expression  very  annoying  to  the  beholder. 
He  reminded  Charlotte  of  someone  she  had  re 
cently  met  and  whom  she  despised ;  but  for  a  long 
time  she  could  not  think  who  this  could  be.  She 
found  herself  staring  at  him,  fascinated,  trying  to 
trace  the  resemblance.  Samuel  Payson  misinter 
preted  her  gaze. 

Isaac  and  Hetty  Thrift  had  too  late  relaxed  their 
vigilant  watch  over  Charlotte.  It  had  taken  them 
all  these  years  to  realize  that  they  were  guarding 
a  prisoner  who  hugged  her  chains.  Wretched  as 
she  was  (in  a  quiet  and  unobtrusive  way)  there  is 
the  possibility  that  she  would  have  been  equally 
wretched  married  to  a  Hardscrabble  Dick.  Char 
lotte's  submission  was  all  the  more  touching  be 
cause  she  had  nothing  against  which  to  rebel.  Once, 
in  the  very  beginning,  Mrs.  Thrift,  haunted  by 
something  in  Charlotte's  eyes,  had  said  in  a  burst 
of  mingled  spleen  and  self-defense: 

"And  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that.,  I  should 
like  to  know !  I'm  sure  I  didn't  kill  your  young  man 
at  Donelson.  You're  only  moping  like  that  to  ag- 


THE  GIRLS  51 

gravate  me;  for  something  that  never  could  have 
been,  anyway — thank  goodness !" 

"He  wouldn't  have  been  killed/'  Charlotte  said, 
unreasonably,  and  with  conviction. 

Had  they  been  as  wise  and  understanding  as 
they  were  well-meaning,  these  two  calvinistic  pa 
rents  might  have  cured  Charlotte  by  one  visit  to 
the  Dicks'  Hardscrabble  kitchen,  with  a  mangy  cur 
nosing  her  skirts;  a  red- faced  hostess  at  the  wash- 
tub;  and  a  ruined,  battered  travesty  of  the  slim 
young  rhyme-making  Jesse  Dick  there  in  the  per 
son  of  old  Pete  Dick  squatting,  sodden,  in  the  door 
way. 

As  the  years  went  on  they  had,  tardily,  a  vague 
and  sneaking  hope  that  something  might  happen 
among  the  G.  A.  R.  widowers  of  Chicago's  better 
families.  During  the  reunions  of  Company  I  and 
Company  E  Charlotte  generally  assisted  with  the 
dinner  or  the  musical  program.  She  had  a  sweet, 
if  small,  contralto  with  notes  in  it  that  matched 
the  fine  dark  eyebrows.  She  sang  a  group  of  old- 
fashioned  songs:  When  You  and  I  Were  Young 
Maggie;  The  Belle  of  Mohawk  Vale;  and  Sleep 
ing  I  Dream,,  Love.  Charlotte  never  suspected  her 
parents'  careful  scheming  behind  these  public  ap 
pearances  of  hers.  Her  deft  capable  hands  at  the 
G.A.R.  dinners,  her  voice  lifted  in  song,  were  her 
offerings  to  Jesse  Dick's  memory.  Him  she  served. 


52  THE  GIRLS 

To  him  she  sang.  And  gradually  even  Isaac  and 
Hetty  Thrift  realized  that  the  G.A.R.  widowers 
were  looking  for  younger  game;  and  that  Char 
lotte,  surrounded  by  blue-uniformed  figures,  still 
was  gazing  through  them,,  past  them,  into  space. 
Her  last  public  appearance  was  when  she  played 
the  organ  and  acted  as  director  for  Queen  Esther, 
a  cantata,  which  marked  rather  an  epoch  in  the 
amateur  musical  history  of  the  town.  After  that 
she  began  to  devote  herself  to  her  sister's  family 
and  to  her  mother. 

But  all  this  was  later.  Charlotte,  at  thirty,  still 
had  a  look  of  vigor,  and  of  fragrant  (if  slightly 
faded)  bloom,  together  with  a  little  atmosphere  of 
mystery  of  which  she  was  entirely  unconscious; 
born,  doubtless,  of  years  of  living  with  a  ghost. 
Attractive  qualities,,  all  three;  and  all  three  quite 
lacking  in  her  tart-tongued  and  acidulous  younger 
sister,  despite  that  miss's  ten-year  advantage.  Car 
rie  was  plain,  spare,  and  sallow.  Her  mind  marched 
with  her  father's.  The  two  would  discuss  real  es 
tate  and  holdings  like  two  men.  Hers  was  the 
mathematical  and  legal-thinking  type  of  brain 
rarely  found  in  a  woman.  She  rather  despised  her 
mother.  Samuel  Payson  used  to  listen  to  her  with 
an  air  of  respectful  admiration  and  attention.  But 
it  was  her  older  sister  to  whom  he  turned  at  last 
with,  "I  thought  perhaps  you  might  enjoy  a  drive 


THE  GIRLS  53 

to  Cleaversville,  since  the  evening's  so  fine,  Miss 
Charlotte.    What  do  you  say,  Miss  Charlotte?" 

"Oh,  thank  you — I'm  not  properly  dressed  for 

driving — perhaps  Carrie " 

"Nonsense !"  Mrs.  Thrift  would  interpose  tartly. 

"But  Miss  Charlotte,  you  are  quite  perfectly 
dressed.  If  I  may  be  so  bold,  that  is  a  style  which 
suits  you  to  a  marvel." 

There  he  was  right.  It  did.  Hoops  were  his 
tory.  The  form-fitting  basque,  the  flattering  neck- 
frill,,  the  hip  sash,  and  the  smart  (though  grotesque) 
bustle  revealed,  and  even  emphasized,  lines  of  the 
feminine  figure — the  swell  of  the  bust,  the  curve 
of  the  throat — that  the  crinoline  had  for  years  con 
cealed.  This  romantic,  if  somewhat  lumpy,  cos 
tume  well  became  Charlotte's  slender  figure  and 
stern  sad  young  face.  In  it  Carrie,  on  the  other 
hand,  resembled  a  shingle  in  a  flower's  sheath. 

This  obstacle  having  been  battered  down,  Char 
lotte  raised  another.  "They  say  the  Cleaversville 
road  is  a  sea  of  mud  and  no  bottom,  to  it  in  places. 
The  rains." 

"Then,"  said  Samuel  Payson,  agreeably,  "we 
shall  leave  that  for  another  time" — Charlotte 
brightened — "and  go  boating  in  the  lagoon  instead. 
Eh,  Miss  Charlotte?" 

Charlotte,  born  fifty  years  later,  would  have 
looked  her  persistent  and  unwelcome  suitor  in  the 


54  THE  GIRLS 

eye  and  said,  "I  don't  want  to  go."  Charlotte,  with 
the  parental  eyes  upon  her,  went  dutifully  upstairs 
for  bonnet  and  mantle. 

The  lagoon  of  Samuel  Pay  son's  naming  was  a 
basin  of  water  between  the  narrow  strip  of  park 
on  Michigan  Avenue  and  the  railway  that  ran  along 
the  lake.  It  was  much  used  for  boating  of  a  polite 
and  restricted  nature. 

It  was  a  warm  Sunday  evening  in  the  early  sum 
mer.  The  better  to  get  the  breeze  the  family  was 
sociably  seated  out  on  what  was  known  as  the  plat 
form.  On  fine  evenings  all  Chicago  sat  out  on  its 
front  steps — "the  stoop"  it  was  called.  The  plat 
form  was  even  more  informal  than  the  stoop.  It 
was  made  of  wooden  planks  built  across  the  ditches 
that  ran  along  each  side  of  the  street.  Across  it 
carriages  drove  up  to  the  sidewalk  when  visitors 
contemplated  alighting.  All  down  Wabash  Avenue 
you  saw  families  comfortably  seated  in  rockers  on 
these  platforms,  enjoying  the  evening  breeze  and 
watching  the  world  go  by.  Here  the  Thrifts — 
Isaac,  Hetty,  and  their  daughter  Carrie — were 
seated  when  the  triumphant  Samuel  left  with  the 
smoldering  Charlotte.  Here  they  were  seated  when 
the  two  returned. 

The  basin  reached,  they  had  hired  a  boat  and 
Samuel  had  paddled  about  in  a  splashy  and  desul 
tory  way,  not  being  in  the  least  an  oarsman.  He 


THE  GIRLS  55 

talked,  Miss-Charlotteing  her  so  insistently  that  in 
ten  minutes  she  felt  thumbed  all  over.  She  looked 
out  across  the  lake.  He  spoke  of  his  loneliness, 
living  at  the  Tremont  House.  Before  being  raised 
to  junior  partner  he  had  been  a  clerk  in  Isaac 
Thrift's  office.  It  was  thus  that  Charlotte  stil)  re 
garded  him — when  she  regarded  him  at  all.  She 
looked  at  him  now,  bent  to  the  oars,  his  flat  chest 
concave,  his  lean  arms  stringy ;  panting  a  little  with 
the  unaccustomed  exercise. 

"It  must  be  lonely/'  murmured  Charlotte,,  absent- 
mindedly  if  sympathetically. 

"Your  father  and  mother  have  been  very  kind" 
— he  bent  a  melting  look  on  her — "far  kinder  than 
you  have  been,  Miss  Charlotte." 

"It's  chilly,  now  that  the  sun's  gone,"  said  Char 
lotte.  "Shall  we  row  in?  This  mantle  is  very 
%ht." 

It  cannot  be  said  that  he  flushed  then,  but  a  little 
flood  of  dark  color  came  into  his  pallid  face.  He 
rowed  for  the  boat-house.  He  maneuvered  the 
boat  alongside  the  landing.  Twilight  had  come  on. 
The  shed-like  place  was  too  dim  for  safety,  lighted 
at  the  far  end  with  one  cobwebby  lantern.  He  hal 
looed  to  the  absent  boatman,  shipped  his  oars,  and 
stepped  out  none  too  expertly.  Charlotte  stood  up, 
smiling.  She  was  glad  to  be  in.  Sitting  opposite 
him  thus,  in  the  boat,  it  had  been  impossible  to 


56  THE  GIRLS 

evade  his  red-rimmed  eyes.  Still  smiling  a  little, 
with  relief  she  took  his  proffered  hand  as  he  stood 
on  the  landing,  stepped  up,  stumbled  a  little  because 
he  had  pulled  with  unexpected  (and  unnecessary) 
strength,  and  was  horrified  suddenly  to  see  him 
thrust  his  head  forward  like  a  particularly  nasty 
species  of  bird,  and  press  moist  clammy  lips  to  the 
hollow  of  her  throat.  Her  reaction  was  as  unfor 
tunate  as  it  was  unstudied.  "Uriah  Heep!"  she 
cried  (at  last!  the  resemblance  that  had  been  haunt 
ing  her  all  these  days),  "Heep!  Heep!"  and  pushed 
him  violently  from  her.  The  sacred  memories  of 
the  past  twelve  years,  violated  now,  were  behind 
that  outraged  push.  It  sent  him  reeling  over  the 
edge  of  the  platform,  clutching  at  a  post  that  was 
not  there,  and  into  the  shallow  water  on  the  other 
side.  The  boatmen,,  running  tardily  toward  them, 
fished  him  out  and  restored  him  to  a  curiously  un- 
agitated  young  lady.  He  was  wet  but  uninjured. 
Thus  dripping  he  still  insisted  on  accompanying 
her  home.  She  had  not  murmured  so  much  as,  "I'm. 
sorry."  They  walked  home  in  hurried  silence,  his 
boots  squashing  at  every  step.  The  Thrifts — 
father,  mother,  and  daughter — still  were  seated  on 
the  platform,  before  the  house,  probably  discussing 
real  estate  values — two  of  them,  at  least.  Followed 
exclamations,  explanations,  sympathy,  flurry. 


THE  GIRLS  57 

"I  fell  in.  A  bad  landing  place.  No  light.  A 
wretched  hole." 

Charlotte  turned  abruptly  and  walked  up  the 
front  steps  and  into  the  house.  "She's  upset,"  said 
Mrs.  Thrift,  automatically  voicing  the  proper  thing, 
flustered  though  she  was.  "Usually  it's  Charlotte 
that  falls  into  things.  You  must  get  that  coat  off 
at  once.  And  the  .  .  .  Isaac,  your  pepper-and-salt 
suit.  A  little  large  but  .  .  .  Come  in.  ... 
Dear,  dear!  .  .  .  I'll  have  a  hot  toddy  ready  .  .  . 
Carrie.  .  .  ." 

It  was  soon  after  the  second  Chicago  fire  that 
Isaac  Thrift  and  his  son-in-law  built  the  three-story- 
and-basement  house  on  Prairie  avenue,  near  29th 
Street.  The  old  man  recalled  the  boast  made  almost 
forty  years  before,  that  some  day  he  would  build 
as  far  south  as  Thirtieth  Street ;  though  it  was  not, 
as  he  had  then  predicted,  a  country  home. 

"I  was  a  little  wrong  there,"  he  admitted,  "but 
only  because  I  was  too  conservative.  They  laughed 
at  me.  Well,  you  can't  deny  the  truth  of  it  now. 
It'll  be  as  good  a  hundred  years  from  now  as  it  is 
to-day.  Only  the  finest  houses  because  of  the  cost 
of  the  ground.  No  chance  of  business  ever  coming 
up  this  way.  From  Sixteenth  to  Thirtieth  it's  a 
residential  paradise.  Yes  sir!  A  res-i-den-tial 
paradise !" 


58  THE  GIRLS 

A  good  thing  that  he  did  not  live  the  twenty-five 
years,  or  less,,  that  transformed  the  paradise  into  a 
smoke-blackened  and  disreputable  inferno,  with 
dusky  faces,  surmounted  by  chemically  unkinked 
though  woolly  heads,  peering  from  every  decayed 
mansion  and  tumbledown  rooming  house.  Six 
teenth  Street  became  a  sore  that  would  not  heal — 
scrofulous,  filthy.  Thirty-first  Street  was  the  cen 
tre  of  the  Black  Belt.  Of  all  that  region  Prairie 
Avenue  alone  resisted  wave  after  wave  of  the  black 
flood  that  engulfed  the  streets  south,  east,  and  west. 
There,,  in  Isaac  Thrift's  day,  lived  much  of  Chi 
cago's  aristocracy;  millionaire  if  mercantile;  pluto 
cratic  though  porcine.  And  there  its  great  stone 
and  brick  mansions  with  their  mushroom-topped 
conservatories,  their  porte-cocheres,  their  high 
wrought-iron  fences,  and  their  careful  lawns  still 
defied  the  years,  though  ruin,  dirt,  and  decay  waited 
just  outside  to  destroy  them.  The  window-hangings 
of  any  street  are  its  character  index.  The  lace  and 
silk  draperies  before  the  windows  of  these  old  man 
sions  still  were  immaculate,  though  the  Illinois  Cen 
tral  trains,,  as  they  screeched  derisively  by,  spat 
huge  mouths ful  of  smoke  and  cinders  into  their  very 
faces. 

Isaac  Thrift  had  fallen  far  behind  his  neighbours 
in  the  race  for  wealth.  They  had  started  as  he  had, 
with  only  courage,  ambition,  and  foresight  as  capi- 


THE  GIRLS  59 

tal.  But  they  —  merchants,  pork-packers  —  had 
dealt  in  food  and  clothing  on  an  increasingly  greater 
scale,  while  Isaac  Thrift  had  early  given  up  his 
store  to  devote  all  his  time  to  real  estate.  There 
had  been  his  mistake.  Bread  and  pork,  hardware 
and  clothing — these  were  fundamental  needs, 
changing  little  with  the  years.  Millions  came  to 
the  man  who,,  starting  as  a  purveyor  of  these,  stayed 
with  them.  At  best,  real  estate  was  a  gamble. 
And  Isaac  Thrift  lost. 

His  own  occasional  short-sightedness  was  not  to 
blame  for  his  most  devastating  loss,  however.  This 
was  dealt  him,  cruelly  and  criminally,  by  his  busi 
ness  partner  and  son-in-law,  the  plausible  Payson. 

The  two  families  dwelt  comfortably  enough  to 
gether  in  the  new  house  on  Prairie.  There  was 
room  and  to  spare,  even  after  two  children — Belle, 
and  then  Lottie — were  born  to  the  Paysons.  The 
house  was  thought  a  grand  affair,  with  its  tin  bath 
tub  and  boxed-in  wash-bowl  on  the  second  floor, 
besides  an  extra  washroom  on  the  first,  off  the  hall ; 
a  red  and  yellow  stained  glass  window  in  the  dining 
room;  a  butler's  pantry  (understand,  no  butler; 
Chicago  boasted  no  more  than  half  a  dozen  of 
these) ;  a  fine  furnace  in  the  lower  hall  just  under 
the  stairway;  oilcloth  on  the  first  flight  of  stairs; 
Brussels  on  the  second ;  ingrain  on  the  third ;  a  liver- 


60  THE  GIRLS 

colored  marble  mantel  in  the  front  parlor,  with 
anemic  replicas  in  the  back  parlor  and  the  more 
important  bedrooms.  It  was  an  age  when  every 
possible  article  of  household  furniture  was  disguised 
to  represent  something  it  was  not.  A  miniature 
Gothic  cathedral  was  really  a  work-basket;  a  fau- 
teuil  was,  like  as  not,  a  music  box.  The  Thrifts' 
parlor  carpet  was  green,  woven  to  represent  a  river 
flowing  along  from  the  back  parlor  folding  doors 
to  the  street  windows,,  with  a  pattern  of  full-sailed 
ships  on  it,  and,  by  way  of  variety,  occasional 
bunches  of  flowers  strewn  carelessly  here  and  there, 
between  the  ships.  On  rare  and  thrilling  occa 
sions,  during  their  infancy,  Belle  and  little  Lottie 
were  allowed  to  crawl  down  the  carpet  river  and 
poke  a  fascinated  finger  into  a  ship's  sail  or  a  floral 
garland. 

Carrie's  two  children  were  born  in  this  house. 
Isaac  and  Hetty  Thrift  died  in  it.  And  in  it  Carrie 
was  left  worse  than  widowed. 

Samuel  Payson  must  have  been  about  forty-six 
when,  having  gathered  together  in  the  office  of 
Thrift  &  Payson  all  the  uninvested  moneys — to 
gether  with  negotiable  bonds,,  stocks,  and  securities 
— on  which  he  could  lay  hands,  he  decamped  and 
was  never  seen  again.  He  must  have  been  planning 
it  for  years.  It  was  all  quite  simple.  He  had  had 


THE  GIRLS  61 

active  charge  of  the  business.  Again  and  again 
Isaac  Thrift  had  turned  over  to  Pay  son  money 
entrusted  him,  for  investment  by  widows  of  lifelong 
friends;  by  the  sons  and  daughters  of  old  Chicago 
settlers;  by  lifelong  friends  themselves.  This 
money  Payson  had  taken,  ostensibly  for  investment. 
He  had  carefully  discussed  its  investment  with  his 
father-in-law,  had  reported  such  investments  made. 
In  reality  he  had  invested  not  a  penny.  On  it  had 
been  paid  one  supposed  dividend,  or  possibly  two. 
The  bulk  of  it  remained  untouched.  When  his  time 
came  Samuel  Payson  gathered  together  the  prac 
tically  virgin  sums  and  vanished  to  live  some 
strange  life  of  his  own  of  which  he  had  been  dream 
ing  behind  that  truckling  manner  and  the  Heepish 
face,,  with  its  red-rimmed  eyes. 

He  had  been  a  model  husband,  father,  and  son- 
in-law.  Chess  with  old  Isaac,,  evenings ;  wool-wind 
ings  for  Mrs.  Thrift;  games  with  the  two  little 
girls;  church  on  Sundays  with  Carrie.  Between 
him  and  Charlotte  little  talk  was  wasted,  and  no 
pretense. 

A  thousand  times,  in  those  years  of  their  dwelling 
together,  Mrs.  Thrift's  eyes  had  seemed  to  say 
to  Charlotte,  "You  see!  This  is  what  a  husband 
should  be.  This  is  a  son-in-law.  No  Dick  dis 
gracing  us  here." 


62  THE  GIRLS 

The  blow  stunned  the  two  old  people  almost  be 
yond  realising  its  enormity.  The  loss  was,  alto 
gether,  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dol 
lars.  Isaac  Thrift  set  about  repaying  it.  Real 
estate  on  Indiana,  Wabash,  Michigan,  Prairie  was 
sold  and  the  money  distributed  to  make  good  the 
default.  They  kept  the  house  on  Prairie;  clung  to 
it.  Anything  but  that.  After  it  was  all  over  Isaac 
Thrift  was  an  old  man  with  palsied  hands.  Hair 
and  beard  whose  color  had  defied  the  years  were 
suddenly  white.  Hetty  Thrift's  tongue  lost  its 
venomous  bite.  After  Isaac  Thrift's  death  she 
turned  to  Charlotte.  Charlotte  alone  could  quell 
her  querulousness.  Carrie  acted  as  an  irritant, 
naturally.  They  were  so  much  alike.  It  was 
Charlotte  who  made  broths  and  jellies,  of  milk- 
toast  and  gruel  with  which  to  tempt  the  mother's 
appetite.  Carrie,  the  mathematical,  was  a  notor 
iously  poor  cook.  Her  mind  was  orderly  and  pains 
taking  enough  when  it  came  to  figuring  on  a  piece 
of  property,  or  a  depreciated  bond.  But  it  lacked 
that  peculiar  patience  necessary  to  the  watching  of 
a  boiling  pot  or  a  simmering  pan. 

"Oh,  it's  done  by  now,,"  she  would  cry,  and  dump 
a  pan's  contents  into  a  dish.  Oftener  than  not  it 
was  half -cooked  or  burned. 

Charlotte  announced,   rather  timidly,  that  she 


THE  GIRLS  63 

would  give  music  lessons;  sewing  lessons;  do  fine 
embroidery.  But  her  tinkling  tunes  were  ghostly 
echoes  of  a  bygone  day.  People  were  even  begin 
ning  to  say  that  perhaps,  after  all,  this  madman 
Wagner  could  be  played  so  that  one  might  endure 
listening.  Hand  embroidery  was  little  appreciated 
at  a  time  when  imitations  were  the  craze. 

Carrie  it  was  who  became  head  of  that  manless 
household.  It  was  well  she  had  wasted  her  time 
in  doing  sums  instead  of  being  more  elegantly  occu 
pied  while  at  Miss  Tait's  Finishing  School,  in  the 
old  Wabash  Avenue  days.  She  now  juggled  inter 
est,  simple  and  compound,,  with  ease;  took  charge 
of  the  few  remaining  bits  of  scattered  property 
saved  from  the  ruins;  talked  gibly  of  lots,  quarter- 
sections,  sub-divisions.  All  through  their  child 
hood  Belle  and  Lottie  heard  reiterated.  "Run 
away.  Can't  you  see  mother's  busy!  Ask  Aunt 
Charlotte."  So  then,  it  was  Aunt  Charlotte  who 
gave  them  their  bread-and-butter  with  sugar  on  top. 
Gradually  the  whole  household  revolved  about  Car 
rie,  though  it  was  Charlotte  who  kept  it  in  motion. 
When  Carrie  went  to  bed  the  household  went  to 
bed.  She  must  have  her  rest.  Meals  were  timed 
to  suit  Carrie's  needs.  She  became  a  business  woman 
in  a  day  when  business  women  were  practically  un 
heard  of.  She  actually  opened  an  office  in  one  of 


64  THE  GIRLS 

the  new  big  Clark  Street  office  buildings,  near  Wash 
ington,  and  had  a  sign  printed  on  the  door : 


MRS.  CARRIE  PAYSON 

REAL  ESTATE 

BONDS  MORTGAGES 

Successor  to  late  Isaac   Thrift 


Later  she  changed  this  to  "Carrie  Thrift  Pay- 
son."  Change  came  easily  to  Carrie.  Adaptabil 
ity  was  one  of  her  gifts.  In  1893  (World's  Fair 
year)  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  wear  the  new  Eton 
jacket  and  separate  skirt  of  blue  serge  (it  became 
almost  a  uniform  with  women)  ;  and  the  shirtwaist,, 
a  garment  that  marked  an  innovation  in  women's 
clothes.  She  worked  like  a  man,  ruled  the  roost, 
was  as  ruthless  as  a  man.  She  was  neither  a  good 
housekeeper  nor  marketer,  but  something  perverse 
in  her  made  her  insist  on  keeping  a  hand  on  the 
reins  of  household  as  well  as  business.  It  was, 
perhaps,  due  to  a  colossal  egotism  and  a  petty  love 
of  power.  Charlotte  could  have  marketed  expertly 
and  thriftily  but  Carrie  liked  to  do  it  on  her  way 
downtown  in  the  morning,  stopping  at  grocer's  and 
butcher's  on  Thirty-first  Street  and  prefacing  her 
order  always  with,  "I'm  in  a  hurry."  The  meat,, 


THE  GIRLS  65 

vegetables,  and  fruit  she  selected  were  never  strictly 
first-grade.  A  bargain  delighted  her.  If  an? 
orange  was  a  little  soft  in  one  spot  she  reckoned 
that  the  spot  could  be  cut  away.  Such  was  her 
system  of  false  economy. 

With  the  World's  Fair  came  a  boom  in  real  es 
tate  and  Carrie  Payson  rode  on  the  crest  of  it. 
There  still  were  heart-breaking  debts  to  pay  and  she 
paid  them  honestly.  She  was  too  much  a  Thrift 
to  do  otherwise.  She  never  became  rich,  but  she 
did  manage  a  decent  livelihood.  Fortunately  for 
all  of  them,  old  Isaac  Thrift  had  bought  some  low 
swampy  land  far  out  in  what  was  considered  the 
wilderness,  near  the  lake,  even  beyond  the  section 
known  as  Cottage  Grove.  With  the  Fair  this  land 
became  suddenly  valuable. 

There's  no  denying  that  Carrie  lacked  a  certain 
feminine  quality.  If  one  of  the  children  chanced 
to  fall  ill,  their  mother,  bustling  home  from  the  of 
fice,  had  no  knack  of  smoothing  a  pillow  or  cooling  a 
hot  little  body  or  easing  a  pain.  "Please,  mother,, 
would  you  mind  not  doing  that  ?  It  makes  my  head 
ache  worse."  Her  fingers  were  heavy,  clumsy,  al 
most  rough,  like  a  man's.  Her  maternal  guidance 
of  her  two  daughters  took  the  form  of  absent- 
minded  and  rather  nagging  admonitions : 

"Belle,,  you're  reading  against  the  light." 


66  THE  GIRLS 

"Lottie,  did  you  change  your  dress  when  you 
came  home  from  school  ?" 

"Don't  bite  that  thread  with  your  teeth !"  Or,  as 
it  became  later,  merely,  "Your  teeth!" 

Slowly,  but  inevitably,  the  Paysons  dropped  out 
of  the  circle  made  up  of  Chicago's  rich  old  families 
— old,  that  is,,  in  a  city  that  reckoned  a  twenty-year 
building  a  landmark.  The  dollar  sign  was  begin 
ning  to  be  the  open  sesame  and  this  symbol  had  long 
been  violently  erased  from  the  Thrift-Payson  es 
cutcheon.  To  the  ladies  in  landaus  with  the  little 
screw-jointed  sun  parasols  held  stiffly  before  them, 
Carrie  Payson  and  Charlotte  Thrift  still  were  "Car 
rie''  and  "Charlotte  dear."  They— and  later  Belle 
and  Lottie — were  asked  to  the  big,  inclusive  crushes 
pretty  regularly  once  a  year.  But  the  small  smart 
dinners  that  were  just  coming  in ;  the  intimate  social 
gayeties ;  the  clubby  affairs,  knew  them  not.  "One 
of  the  Thrift  girls"  might  mean  anyone  in  the 
Prairie  Avenue  household,  but  it  was  never  any 
thing  but  a  term  of  respect  and  meant  much  to  any 
one  who  was  native  to  Chicago.  Other  Prairie 
Avenue  mansions  sent  their  daughters  to  local  pri 
vate  schools,  or  to  the  Eastern  finishing  schools. 
Belle  and  Lottie  attended  the  public  grammar  school 
and  later  Armour  Institute  for  the  high  school 
course  only.  Middle-aged  folk  said  to  Lottie,  "My, 
how  much  like  your  Aunt  Charlotte  you  do  look, 


THE  GIRLS  67 

child!"  They  never  exclaimed  in  Belle's  presence 
at  the  likeness  they  found  in  her  face.  Belle's  fam 
ily  resemblance  could  be  plainly  traced  to  one  of 
whom  friends  did  not  speak  in  public.  Belle  was 
six  years  her  sister's  senior,  but  Lottie,  with  her 
serious  brow  and  her  clear,  steady  eyes,  looked  al 
most  Belle's  age.  Though  Belle  was  known  as  the 
flighty  one  there  was  more  real  fun  in  Lottie.  In 
Lottie's  bedroom,  there  still  hangs  a  picture  of  the 
two  of  them,  framed  in  passepartout.  It  was  taken 
— arm  in  arm — when  Lottie  was  finishing  high 
school  and  Belle  was  about  to  marry  Henry  Kemp  ; 
high  pompadours  over  enormous  "rats,,"  the  whole 
edifice  surmounted  by  a  life-size  chou  of  ribbon; 
shirtwaists  with  broad  Gibson  tucks  that  gave  them 
shoulders  of  a  coal-heaver ;  plaid  circular  skirts  fit 
ting  snugly  about  the  hips  and  flaring  out  in  great 
bell-shaped  width  at  the  hem;  and  trailing. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  keep  that  comic  val 
entine  hanging  up  for!"  Belle  always  exclaimed 
when  she  chanced  into  Lottie's  room  in  later  years. 

Often  and  often,  during  these  years,  you  might 
have  heard  Carrie  Payson  say,  with  bitterness,  "I 
don't  want  my  girls  to  have  the  life  I've  had.  I'll 
see  to  it  that  they  don't." 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  it?"  Charlotte  would 
ask,  with  a  curious  smile. 

"I'll  stay  young  with  them.     And  I'll  watch  for 


68  THE  GIRLS 

mistakes.  I  know  the  world.  I  ought  to.  For 
that  matter,  I'd  as  soon  they  never  married." 

Charlotte  would  flare  into  sudden  and  inexplic 
able  protest.  "You  let  them,  live  their  own  lives, 
the  way  they  want  to,,  good  or  bad.  How  do  you 
know  the  way  it'll  turn  out !  Nobody  knows.  Let 
them  live  their  own  lives." 

"Nonsense,"  from  Carrie,  crisply.  "A  mother 
knows.  One  uses  a  little  common  sense  in  these 
things,  that's  all.  Don't  you  think  a  mother  knows  ?" 
a  rhetorical  question,  plainly,  but : 

"No,"  said  Charlotte. 


CHAPTER  V 

ANYONE  who  has  lived  in  Chicago  knows  that 
you  don't  live  on  the  South  Side.  You  simply 
do  not  live  on  the  South  Side.  And  yet  Chicago's 
South  Side  is  a  pleasant  place  of  fine  houses  and 
neat  lawns  (and  this  when  every  foot  of  lawn  rep 
resents  a  tidy  fortune) ;  of  trees,  and  magnificent 
parks  and  boulevards;  of  stately  (if  smoke-black 
ened)  apartment  houses;  of  children,,  and  motor 
cars;  of  all  that  makes  for  comfortable,  middle- 
class  American  life.  More  than  that,  booming  its 
benisons  upon  the  whole  is  the  astounding  spectacle 
of  Lake  Michigan  forming  the  section's  eastern 
boundary.  And  yet  Fashion  had  early  turned  its 
back  upon  all  this  as  is  the  way  of  Fashion  with 
natural  beauty. 

We  know  that  the  Paysons  lived  south ;  and  why. 
We  know,  too,  that  Carrie  Payson  was  the  kind  of 
mother  who  would  expect  her  married  daughter  to 
live  near  her.  Belle  had  had  the  courage  to  make 
an  early  marriage  as  a  way  of  escape  from  the 
Prairie  avenue  household,  but  it  was  not  until  much 
later  that  she  had  the  temerity  to  broach  the  subject 

69 


70  THE  GIRLS 

of  moving  north.  She  had  been  twenty  when  she 
married  Henry  Kemp,  ten  years  her  senior.  A  suc 
cessful  marriage.  Even  now,,  near  ing  forty,  she 
still  said,  "Henry,  bring  me  a  chair/'  and  Henry 
brought  it.  Not  that  Henry  was  a  worm.  He  was 
merely  the  American  husband  before  whom  the  for 
eign  critic  stands  aghast.  A  rather  silent,  gray- 
haired,  eye-glassed  man  with  a  slim  boyish  waist 
line,  a  fair  mashie  stroke,,  a  keen  business  head,  and 
a  not  altogether  blind  devotion  to  his  selfish,  pam 
pered  semi-intellectual  wife.  There  is  no  denying 
his  disappointment  at  the  birth  of  his  daughter 
Charlotte.  He  had  needed  a  son  to  stand  by  him 
in  this  family  of  strong-minded  women.  It  was  not 
altogether  from  the  standpoint  of  convenience  that 
he  had  called  Charlotte  "Charley"  from  the  first. 

Thwarted  in  her  secret  ambition  to  move  north, 
Belle  moved  as  far  south  as  possible  from  the  old 
Prairie  Avenue  dwelling;  which  meant  that  the 
Kemps  were  residents  of  Hyde  Park.  Between  the 
two  families — the  Kemps  in  Hyde  Park  and  the 
Paysons  in  Prairie  Avenue — there  existed  a  terrible 
intimacy,  fostered  by  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson.  They 
telephoned  each  other  daily.  They  saw  one  another 
almost  daily.  Mrs.  Payson  insisted  on  keeping  a 
finger  on  the  pulse  of  her  married  daughter's  house 
hold  as  well  as  her  own.  During  Charley's  baby 
hood  the  innermost  secrets  of  the  nursery,  the  in- 


THE  GIRLS  71 

fant's  most  personal  functions,  were  discussed  daily 
via  the  telephone.  Lottie,  about  sixteen  at  that 
time,  and  just  finishing  at  Armour,  usually  ate  her 
hurried  breakfast  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  daily 
morning  telephone  talk  carried  on  between  her 
mother  and  her  married  sister. 

"How  are  they  this  morning?  .  .  .  Again!  .  .  . 
Well  then  give  her  a  little  oil.  .  .  .  Certainly  not ! 
I  didn't  have  the  doctor  in  every  time  you  two  girls 
had  a  little  something  wrong.  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  al 
ways  having  that  baby  specialist  in  every  time  she 
makes  a  face.  We  never  heard  of  baby  specialists 
when  I  was  a  ...  Well,  but  the  oil  won't  hurt  her. 
...  If  they're  not  normal  by  to-morrow  get  him  but 
.  .  .  You  won't  be  able  to  go  to  the  luncheon,  of 
course  .  .  .  You  are!  But  if  Charley's  .  .  .  Well, 
if  she's  sick  enough  to  have  a  doctor  she's  sick 
enough  to  need  her  mother  at  home.  .  .  .  Oh,  all 
right.  Only,  if  anything  happens  .  .  .  How  was 
the  chicken  you  bought  yesterday?  .  .  .  Didn't  I 
tell  you  it  was  a  tough  one !  You  pay  twice  as  much 
over  there  in  Hyde  Park  .  .  .  What  are  you  going 
to  wear  to  the  luncheon?  .  .  ." 

Throughout  her  school  years  Lottie  had  always 
had  a  beau  to  squire  her  about  at  school  parties  and 
boy-and-girl  activities.  He  was  likely  to  be  a  rather 
superior  beau,  too.  No  girl  as  clear-headed  as  Lot 
tie,  and  as  intelligently  fun-loving  and  merry,  would 


72  THE  GIRLS 

tolerate  a  slow-witted  sweetheart.  The  word  sweet 
heart  is  used  for  want  of  a  better.  Of  sweetheart- 
ing  there  was  little  among  these  seventeen-  and 
eighteen-year-olds.  Viewed  through  the  wise  eyes 
of  to-day's  adolescents  they  would  have  seemed  as 
quaint  and  stiff  as  their  pompadours  and  high 
collars. 

In  a  day  when  organised  Social  Work  was  con 
sidered  an  original  and  rather  daring  departure  for 
women  Lottie  Payson  seemed  destined  by  tempera 
ment  and  character  to  be  a  successful  settlement 
worker.  But  she  never  became  one.  Lottie  had 
too  much  humour  and  humaneness  for  the  drab 
routine  of  school-teaching;  not  enough  hardness  and 
aggressiveness  for  business;  none  of  the  creative 
spark  that  marks  the  genius  in  art.  She  was  sym 
pathetic  without  being  sentimental;  just  and  fair 
without  being  at  all  stern  or  forbidding.  Above 
all  she  had  the  gift  of  listening.  The  kind  of 
woman  who  is  better-looking  at  thirty-five  than  at 
twenty.  The  kind  of  woman  who  learns  with  liv 
ing  and  who  marries  early  or  never.  With  circum 
stance  and  a  mother  like  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson 
against  her,  Lottie's  chances  of  marrying  early  were 
hardly  worth  mentioning.  Lottie  was  the  kind  of 
girl  who  "is  needed  at  home." 

Don't  think  that  she  hadn't  young  men  to  walk 
home  with  her  from  school.  She  had.  But  they 


THE  GIRLS  73 

were  likely  to  be  young  men  whose  collars  were 
not  guiltless  of  eraser  marks;  who  were  active  in 
the  debating  societies;  and  whose  wrists  hung,  a 
red  oblong,  below  their  too-short  sleeves.  The  kind 
of  young  man  destined  for  utter  failure  or  great 
success.  The  kind  of  young  man  who  tries  a  pecan 
grove  in  Carolina,  or  becomes  president  of  a  bank 
in  New  York.  None  of  these  young  men  ever 
kissed  Lottie.  I  think  that  sometimes,  looking  at 
her  serious  pretty  lips  closed  so  firmly  over  the  white 
teeth,  they  wanted  to.  I'm  sure  that  Lottie,  though 
she  did  not  know  it,  wished  they  would.  But  they 
never  did.  Lottie  absolutely  lacked  coquetry  as 
does  the  woman  who  tardily  develops  a  sense  of  sex 
power.  In  Lottie's  junior  year  these  gawky  and 
studious  young  men  narrowed  down  to  one.  His 
name  was  Rutherford  Hayes  Adler  and  he  was  a 
Jew.  There  is  no  describing  him  without  the  use 
of  the  word  genius,  and  in  view  of  his  novels  of 
to-day  (R.  H.  Adler)  there  is  no  need  to  apologise 
for  the  early  use  of  the  word.  He  was  a  living 
refutation  of  the  belief  that  a  brilliant  mathemati 
cian  has  no  imagination.  His  Armour  report  cards 
would  have  done  credit  to  young  Euclid;  and  he 
wrote  humorous  light  verse  to  Lottie  and  sold  in 
surance  on  the  side.  Being  swarthy,  black-haired, 
and  black-eyed  he  was  cursed  with  a  taste  for  tan 
suits  and  red  neckties.  These,  with  the  high  choker 


74  THE  GIRLS 

collar  of  the  period,,  gave  him  the  look  of  an  end- 
man  strayed  from  the  minstrel  troupe.  Being  nat 
urally  shy,  he  assumed  a  swagger.  He  was  lovable 
and  rather  helpless,  and  his  shoe-strings  were  al 
ways  coming  untied.  His  humour  sense  was  so 
keen,  so  unerring,  so  fastidious  as  to  be  almost  a 
vice.  Armour  students  who  did  not  understand  it 
said,  "He's  a  funny  fellow.  I  don't  know — kind 
of  batty,  isn't  he?" 

This  young  man  it  was  who  walked  home  with 
Lottie  Payson  all  through  her  junior  and  senior 
years;  sat  next  to  her  at  meetings  of  the  debating 
society;  escorted  her  to  school  festivities;  went  bi 
cycling  with  her  on  Saturday  afternoons.  The 
Payson  household  paid  little  attention  to  him  or  to 
Lottie.  Belle  was  busy  with  her  love  affair.  Henry 
Kemp  had  just  appeared  on  her  horizon.  Mrs. 
Payson  was  deep  in  her  real  estate  transactions. 
On  the  few  occasions  when  Rutherford  Hayes  actu 
ally  entered  the  house  and  sat  down  to  await  Lottie 
the  two  were  usually  on  their  way  to  some  innocu 
ous  entertainment  or  outing.  So  that  it  was  Aunt 
Charlotte,  if  anybody,  who  said  "How  do  you  do, 
young  man.  Oh  yes,  you're  Mr.  Adler.  Lottie'll 
be  right  down."  A  little  silence.  Then  kindly, 
from  Aunt  Charlotte,  "H'm!  How  do  you  like 
your  school  work?"  Years  afterwards  Adler  put 
Aunt  Charlotte  into  one  of  his  books.  And  Lottie. 


THE  GIRLS  75 

And  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson,  too.  He  had  reason  to 
remember  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  Lottie's  senior  year  that  Mrs. 
Payson  became  aware  of  this  young  man  whose 
swart  face  seemed  always  to  be  just  appearing  or 
disappearing  around  the  corner  with  Lottie  either 
smiling  in  greeting  or  waving  a  farewell.  End-of- 
the-year  school  festivities  were  accountable  for  this. 
Then,  too,  Belle  must  have  registered  some  objec 
tion.  When  next  young  Adler  appeared  at  the 
Prairie  Avenue  house  it  was  Mrs.  Payson  who  sailed 
down  the  rather  faded  green  river  of  the  parlor 
carpet. 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Payson ;  her  glance 
said,  "What  are  you  doing  here,  in  this  house?" 

Rutherford  Hayes  Adler  wanted  to  get  up  from 
the  chair  into  which  his  lank  length  was  doubled. 
He  knew  he  should  get  up.  But  a  hideous  shyness 
kept  him  there — bound  him  with  iron  bands. 
When  finally,  with  a  desperate  effort,  he  broke  them 
and  stumbled  to  his  feet  it  was  too  late.  Mrs. 
Payson  had  seated  herself — if  being  seated  can  de 
scribe  the  impermanent  position  which  she  now  as 
sumed  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  stiffest  of  the 
stiff  parlor  chairs. 

The  sallow,  skinny  little  Carrie  Thrift  had  mel 
lowed — no,  that  word  won't  do — had  developed  into 
an  erect,  dignified,  white-haired  woman  of  rather 


76  THE  GIRLS 

imposing  mien.  The  white  hair,  in  particular,  was 
misleadingly  softening. 

"May  I  ask  your  father's  name  ?"  she  said.  Just 
that. 

The  boy  had  heard  that  tone  used  many  times  in 
the  past  nineteen  hundred  years.  "Adler,"  he  re 
plied. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  his  first  name.  What  is  his 
first  name,  please  ?" 

"His  first  name  was  Abraham — Abraham,  I. 
Adler.  The  I  stands  for  Isaac.'' 

"Abraham — Isaac — Adler,"  repeated  Mrs.  Pay- 
son.  As  she  uttered  the  words  they  were  an  op 
probrium. 

"Your  father's  name  was  Isaac  too,  wasn't  it?" 
said  the  boy. 

"His  name  was  Isaac  Thrift."  An  altogether 
different  kind  of  Isaac,  you  would  have  thought. 
No  relation  to  the  gentleman  in  the  Bible.  A  New 
England  Isaac  not  to  be  confused  with  the  Levan 
tine  of  that  name. 

"Yes.  I  remember  I  used  to  hear  my  grand 
father  speak  of  him." 

"Indeed!     In  what  connection,  may  I  ask?" 

"Why,  he  came  to  Chicago  in  '39,  just  about  the 
time  your  father  came,  I  imagine.  They 
were  young  men  together.  Grandfather  was  an 
old  settler." 


THE  GIRLS  77 

Mrs.  Payson's  eyebrows  doubted  it.  "I  don't  re 
member  ever  having  seen  him  mentioned  in  books  on 
early  Chicago/' 

"You  wouldn't,"  said  Adler;  "he  isn't." 

"And  why  not?" 

"Jew,"  said  Rutherford  Hayes,  pleasantly,  and 
laconically. 

Mrs.  Payson  stood  up.  So  did  the  boy.  He  had 
no  difficulty  in  rising  now.  No  self -consciousness, 
no  awkwardness.  There  was  about  him  suddenly 
a  fluid  grace,  an  easy  muscular  rhythm.  "Of 
course,  grandfather  has  been  dead  a  good  many 
years  now,"  he  went  on  politely,  "and  father,  too." 

"I'm  afraid  Lottie  won't  be  able  to  go  this  even 
ing,"  Mrs.  Payson  said.  "She  has  been  going  out 
too  much.  It  is  bad  for  her  school  work.  Young 
girls  nowadays " 

"I  see.  I'm  sorry."  There  was  nothing  of  hu 
mility  in  the  little  bow  he  made  from,  the  waist. 
Ten  minutes  earlier  you  would  never  have  thought 
him  capable  of  so  finished  an  act  as  that  bow.  He 
walked  to  the  folding  doors  that  led  to  the  hall.  On 
the  way  his  glance  fell  on  the  portrait  of  old  Isaac 
Thrift  over  the  liver-coloured  marble  mantel.  It 
was  a  fine  portrait.  One  of  Healy's.  Adler  paused 
a  moment  before  it.  "Is  that  a  good  portrait  of 
your  father?" 

"It  is  considered  very  like  him." 


78  THE  GIRLS 

"It  must  be.  I  can  see  now  why  my  grandfather 
took  his  part  to  the  last." 

'Took  his  part!"  But  her  tone  was  a  shade  less 
corroding.  "In  what,  if  you  please?" 

"Grandfather  lost  his  fortune  when  a  firm  he 
trusted  proved — well,  when  a  member  of  it  proved 
untrustworthy." 

When  he  grew  older  he  was  always  ashamed  of 
having  thus  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  a  woman. 
But  he  was  so  young  at  the  time ;  and  she  had  hurt 
him  so  deeply.  He  turned  again  now,  for  the  door. 
And  there  stood  Lottie,  brave,  but  not  quite  brave 
enough.  She  was  not  wearing  her  white  dress — 
her  party  dress,  for  the  evening.  Her  mother  had 
forbidden  her  to  come  down.  And  yet  here  she 
was.  Braver — not  much,  but  still  braver — than 
Charlotte  had  been  before  her. 

"I— I  can't  go,  Ford,,"  she  faltered. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said,  then.  And  there,  before 
the  white-haired  relentless  and  disapproving  Carrie 
Payson  he  went  up  to  her,  put  one  lean  dark  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her, 
a  funny  little  boyish  peck  on  the  forehead.  "Good 
bye,,  Lottie,"  he  said.  And  was  gone. 

Lottie's  being  needed  at  home  began  before  the 
failure  of  Aunt  Charlotte's  sight.  Aunt  Charlotte 
had  to  go  to  the  eye  specialist's  daily.  Lottie  took 
her.  This  was  even  before  the  day  of  the  ram- 


THE  GIRLS 


79 


shackle  electric.  Lottie  never  begrudged  Aunt 
Charlotte  the  service.  Already  between  these  two 
women,  the  one  hardly  more  than  twenty,  the  other 
already  past  sixty,  there  existed  a  curious  and  un 
spoken  understanding.  They  were  not  voluble 
women,  these  two.  Lottie  never  forgot  those  two 
hours  in  the  waiting  room  of  the  famous  specialist. 
Every  chair  was  occupied,  always.  Silent,  idle, 
waiting  figures  with  something  more  crushed  and 
apprehensive  about  them  than  ordinarily  about  the 
waiting  ones  in  a  doctor's  outer  room.  The  neat 
little  stack  of  magazines  on  the  centre  table  re 
mained  untouched.  Sometimes,  if  the  wait  was  a 
long  one,  Lottie  would  run  out  for  an  hour's  shop 
ping;  or  would  drop  in  at  her  mother's  office.  Mrs. 
Payson  usually  was  busy  with  a  client ;  maps,  docu 
ments,  sheafs  of  blue-bound  papers.  But  if  one  of 
her  daughters  came  downtown  without  dropping  in 
at  the  office  she  took  it  as  a  deliberate  slight ;  or  as 
a  disregard  of  parental  authority.  Lottie  hated  the 
door  marked : 


CARRIE  THRIFT  PAYSON 

REAL  ESTATE 
BONDS  MORTGAGES 


8o  THE  GIRLS 

"Oh,  you're  busy." 

Mrs.  Payson  would  glance  up.  There  was  noth 
ing  absent-minded  about  the  glance.  For  the  mo 
ment  her  attention  was  all  on  Lottie.  "Sit  down. 
Wait  a  minute." 

"I'll  come  back." 

"Wait." 

Lottie  waited.  Finally,  "Aunt  Charlotte  will  be 
wondering " 

"We're  through  now."  She  would  sit  back  in  her 
desk  chair,  her  hands  busy  with  the  papers,  her 
eyes  on  her  client.  "Now,  if  you'll  come  in  again  on 
Monday,  say,  at  about  this  time,  I'll  have  the  ab 
stract  for  you,  and  the  trust  deed.  In  the  meantime 
I'll  get  in  touch  with  Spielbauer " 

She  would  rise,  as  would  her  client,  a  man,  usu 
ally.  With  the  conclusion  of  the  business  in  hand 
she  effected  a  quick  change  of  manner;  became  the 
woman  in  business  instead  of  the  business  woman. 
Sometimes  the  client  happened  to  be  an  old-time 
acquaintance,  in  which  case  Carrie  Payson  would 
put  a  hand  on  Lottie's  shoulder.  "This  is  my 
baby." 

The  client  would  laugh  genially,  "Quite  a  baby !" 
This  before  the  word  had  taken  on  its  slang  sig 
nificance. 

"I  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  without  her,"  Mrs. 
Payson  would  say.  "I  have  to  be  here  all  day." 


THE  GIRLS  81 

"Yes,  they're  a  great  help.  Great  help.  Well — 
see  you  Monday,  Mrs.  Pay  son.  Same  time.  If 
you'll  just  see  Spielbauer " 

The  door  closed,  Mrs.  Payson  would  turn  again 
to  Lottie.  "What  was  the  girl  doing  when  you 
left?" 

"Why — she  was  still  ironing." 

"How  far  had  she  got?" 

"All  the  fancy  things.  She  was  beginning  on 
the  sheets." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so!     At  that  hour." 

Lottie  turned  toward  the  door.  "Aunt  Char- 
lotte'll  be  waiting." 

Mrs.  Payson  must  have  a  final  thumb  on  the  clay. 
"Be  very  careful  crossing  the  streets."  And  yet 
there  was  pride  and  real  affection  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  after  the  sturdy  vigorous  figure  speeding 
down  the  corridor  toward  the  elevator. 

Once,  when  Lottie  returned  to  the  oculist's  after 
a  longer  absence  than  usual  Aunt  Charlotte  had 
gone.  "How  long?"  The  attendant  thought  it 
must  be  fifteen  minutes.  Chicago's  downtown 
streets,  even  to  the  young  and  the  keen-sighted, 
were  a  maelstrom  dotted  at  intervals  by  blue-uni 
formed  figures  who  held  up  a  magic  arm  and  blew 
a  shrill  blast  just  when  a  swirl  and  torrent  of  drays, 
cabs,  street-cars,  and  trucks  with  plunging  horses 
threatened  completely  to  engulf  them,.  Added  to 


82  THE  GIRLS 

this  was  the  thunderous  roar  of  the  Wabash  Avenue 
L  trains.  Even  when  the  crossing  was  compara 
tively  safe  and  clear  the  deafening  onrush  of  a  pass 
ing  L  train  above  always  caused  Aunt  Charlotte  to 
scuttle  back  to  the  curb  from  which  she  was  about 
to  venture  forth.  The  roar  seemed  to  be  associated 
in  her  mind  with  danger;  it  added  to  her  confusion. 
Leading  a  horse  out  of  a  burning  barn  was  play 
compared  with  ushering  Aunt  Charlotte  across  a 
busy  downtown  street. 

"Just  let  me  take  my  time,"  she  would  say,  tremu 
lously,  but  stubbornly  immovable. 

"But  Aunt  Charlotte  if  we  don't  go  now  we'll 
be  here  forever.  Now's  the  time." 

Aunt  Charlotte  would  not  budge.  Then,  at  the 
wrong  moment,  she  would  dart  suddenly  across  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  startled  whoop  or  curse 
of  a  driver,  chauffeur,  or  car  conductor  obliged  to 
draw  a  quick  rein  or  jam  on  an  emergency  brake 
to  avoid  running  her  down. 

Lottie,  knowing  all  this,  sped  toward  Wabash 
Avenue  with  fear  in  her  heart,  and  a  sort  of  anger 
born  of  fear.  "Oh,,  dear !  It  does  seem  to  me  she 
might  have  waited.  Mother  didn't  want  a  thing. 
Not  a  thing.  I  told  her " 

She  came  to  the  corner  of  Wabash  and  Madison 
where  they  always  took  the  Indiana  Avenue  car. 
She  saw  a  little  group  of  people  near  the  curb  and 


THE  GIRLS  83 

her  heart  contracted  as  she  sped  on,  but  when  she 
came  up  to  them  it  was  only  a  balky  automobile  en 
gine  that  had  drawn  their  attention.  She  looked 
across  at  the  corner  which  was  their  car-stop. 
There  stood  Aunt  Charlotte.  At  once  cowering, 
brave;  terrified,  courageous.  At  sight  of  that  tim 
orous,  peering,  black-garbed  figure  Lottie  gave  a 
little  sob.  The  blood  rushed  back  to  her  heart  as 
though  it  had  lain  suspended  in  her  veins. 

"Aunt  Charlotte,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  got  across  alone." 

"But  why  didn't  you  wait  for  me?  You 
knew "  " 

"I  got  across  alone.  But  the  street  car — the 
wagons  never  stopping  so  a  body  can  get  out  to  the 
street  car.  And  no  way  of  telling  whether  it  was 
an  Indiana  or  a  Cottage  Grove.  But  I  got  across 
alone."  She  had  her  five-cent  piece  in  her  black- 
gloved,  trembling  hand. 

Safely  in  the  car,  Lottie  waxed  stern  again. 
"Why  didn't  you  wait,  Aunt  Charlotte  ?  You  knew 
I'd  be  back  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
late.  That  was  awfully  naughty  of  you,  Charlotte 
Thrift." 

Aunt  Charlotte  was  looking  out  of  the  car  win 
dow.  What  she  saw  must  have  been  little  more 
than  a  blur  to  her.  But  something  told  Lottie  that 
in  the  dim  eyes  turned  away  from  her  was  still 


84  THE  GIRLS 

another  blur — a  blur  of  hot  mist.  Lottie  leaned 
forward,  covering  with  her  own  firm  cool  young 
grasp  the  hand  that  lay  so  inertly  in  the  black  silk 
lap.  "What  is  it?  Why "  ' 

Aunt  Charlotte  turned  and  Lottie  saw  that  what 
she  had  sensed  was  true.  "It  isn't  right!"  said 
Aunt  Charlotte  almost  fiercely,  and  yet  in  a  half- 
whisper,  for  the  car  was  crowded  and  she  had  a 
horror  of  attracting  public  notice. 

"What  isn't?" 

"Your  calling  for  me,,  and  bringing  me  back. 
Every  day.  Every  day." 

"Now!  You're  just  a  little  blue  to-day;  but  the 
doctor  said  you'd  only  have  to  come  down  for  treat 
ment  a  week  or  two  more." 

"It  isn't  me.     It's  you.     Your  life !     Your  life !" 

A  little  flush  crept  into  Lottie's  face.  "It's  all 
right,  dear." 

"It  isn't  all  right.  Don't  you  think  I  know!" 
Aunt  Charlotte's  voice  suddenly  took  on  a  deep  and 
resonant  note — the  note  of  exhortation.  "Lottie, 
you're  going  to  be  eaten  alive  by  two  old  cannibal 
women.  I  know.  I  know.  Don't  you  let  'em! 
You've  got  your  whole  life  before  you.  Live  it  the 
way  you  want  to.  Then  you'll  have  only  yourself 
to  blame.  Don't  you  let  somebody  else  live  it  for 
you.  Don't  you." 

"How  about  mother,  slaving  down  in  that  office 


THE  GIRLS  85 

all  day,  when  all  the  other  women  of  her  age  af  e  tak 
ing  it  easy — a  nap  at  noon,  and  afternoon  parties, 
and  a  husband  to  work  for  them?" 

"Slaving  fiddlesticks !  She  likes  it.  Your  mother'd 
rather  read  the  real  estate  transfers  than  a  novel. 
Besides.,  she  doesn't  need  to.  We  could  live,  on  the 
rents.  Nothing  very  grand,  maybe.  But  we  could 
live.  And  why  not  let  you  do  something?  That's 
what  I'd  like  to  know !  Why  not " 

"Oh,  I'd  love  it.  All  the  girls— that  is,  all  the 
girls  I  like — are  doing  some  kind  of  work.  But 
mother  says " 

Aunt  Charlotte  sniffed.  It  was  almost  a  snort. 
"I  know  what  your  mother  says.  'No  daughter  of 
mine  is  going  to  work  for  her  living.'  Hmph!" 
(Which  is  not  expressing  it,  but  nearly.)  "Calls 
herself  modern.  She's  your  grandfather  over 
again  and  he  thought  he  was  a  whole  generation 
ahead  of  his  generation.  Wasn't,  though.  Little 
behind,  if  anything." 

Sometimes  Aunt  Charlotte,,  the  subdued,  the 
vaguely  wistful,  had  a  sparkling  pugnacity,  a  sud 
den  lift  of  spirits  that  showed  for  a  brief  moment 
a  glimpse  of  the  girl  of  fifty  years  ago.  A  tiff  with 
^Carrie  Pay  son  (in  which  Charlotte,  strangely 
enough,  usually  came  off  victorious)  often  brought 
about  this  brief  phenomenon.  At  such  times  she 
had  even  been  known  to  sing,  in  a  high  off-key 


86  THE  GIRLS 

falsetto,  such  ghostly,  but  rakish,  echoes  as :  Cham 
pagne  Charley  Was  His  Name,  or,  Captain  Jinks 
of  the  Horse  Marines,  or  even,  Up  in  a  Balloon 
Boys.  Strangely  enough  as  she  grew  older  this 
mood  became  more  and  more  familiar.  It  was  a 
sort  of  rebirth.  At  times  she  assumed  an  almost 
jaunty  air.  It  was  as  though  life,  having  done  its 
worst,  was  no  longer  feared  by  her. 

In  spite  of  objections,  Lottie  made  sporadic  at 
tempts  to  mingle  in  the  stream  of  life  that  was  flow 
ing  so  swiftly  past  her — this  new  life  of  service  and 
self-expression  into  which  women  were  entering. 
Settlement  work;  folk  dancing,  pageantry,  juvenile 
and  girls'  court  work;  social  service;  departmental 
newspaper  work.  Lottie  was  attracted  by  all  of 
these  and  to  any  one  of  them  she  might  have  given 
valuable  service.  A  woman,  Emma  Barton,  not 
yet  fifty,  had  been  appointed  assistant  judge  of  the 
new  girls'  court.  No  woman  had  held  a  position 
such  as  that.  Lottie  had  met  her.  The  two  had 
become  friends — close  friends  in  spite  of  the  dis 
parity  in  their  ages. 

"I  need  you  so  badly  up  here,/'  Emma  Barton 
often  told  Lottie.  "You've  got  a  way  with  girls; 
and  you're  not  school-teachery  or  judicial  with  them. 
That's  the  trouble  with  the  regular  court  worker. 
And  they  talk  to  you,  don't  they?  Why,  I  won 
der?" 


THE  GIRLS  87 

"Maybe  it's  because  I  listen/'  Lottie  replied. 
"And  they  think  I'm  sort  of  simple.  Maybe  I  am. 
But  not  so  simple  as  they  think."  She  laughed.  A 
visit  to  Judge  Barton's  court  always  stimulated  her, 
even  while  it  saddened. 

Chicagoans,  for  the  most  part,  read  in  the  papers 
of  Judge  Barton  and  pictured  in  their  minds  a  stout 
and  pink-jowled  judiciary  in  a  black  coat,  impos 
ing  black-ribboned  eyeglasses,  and  careful  linen. 
These  people,  if  they  chanced  to  be  brought  face 
to  face  with  Judge  Barton,  were  generally  seen  to 
smile  uncertainly  as  though  a  joke  were  being  played 
on  them  without  success.  They  saw  a  small,  mild- 
faced  woman  with  graying  hair  and  bright  brown 
eyes — piercing  eyes  that  yet  had  a  certain  liquid 
quality.  She  was  like  a  wise  little  wren  who  has 
seen  much  of  life  and  understands  more  than  she 
has  seen,  and  forgives  more  than  she  understands. 
A  blue  cloth  dress  with,  probably,  some  bright  em 
broidery  worked  on  it.  A  modern  workaday  dress 
on  a  modern  woman.  Underneath,  characteristi 
cally  enough,  a  black  sateen  petticoat  with  a  pocket 
in  it,  like  a  market  woman.  A  morning  spent  in 
Judge  Barton's  court  was  life  with  the  cover  off. 
It  was  a  sight  vouchsafed  to  few.  Emma  Barton 
discouraged  the  curious  and  ousted  the  morbidly 
prying.  Besides,  there  was  no  space  in  her  tiny 
room  for  more  than  the  persons  concerned.  It  was 


88  THE  GIRLS 

less  like  a  court  room  then  your  own  office,  perhaps. 

Then  there  was  Winnie  Steppler,  who  wrote  for 
Chicago's  luridest  newspaper  under  the  nom  de 
plume  of  " Alice  Yorke."  A  pink-cheeked,  white- 
haired,  Falstaffian  woman  with  the  look  and  air  of 
a  picture-book  duchess  and  the  wit  and  drollery  of 
a  gamin.  Twice  married,  twice  widowed ;  wise  with 
a  terrible  wisdom;  seeing  life  so  plainly  that  she 
could  not  write  of  what  she  saw.  There  were  no 
words.  Or  perhaps  the  gift  of  words  had  kindly 
been  denied  her.  Her  "feature  stuff"  was  likely  to 
be  just  that.  Her  conversation  was  razor-keen  and 
as  Irish  as  she  cared  to  make  it.  People  were  al 
ways  saying  to  her,  "Why  don't  you  write  the  way 
you  talk?" 

"It's  lucky  for  my  friends  I  don't  talk  the  way  I 
write." 

Perhaps  these  two  women,  more  than  anything 
or  anyone  else,  had  influenced  Lottie  to  intolerance 
of  aimless  diversion.  Not  that  Lottie  had  much 
time  for  her  own  aimless  diversion  even  if  she  had 
fancied  it.  Rheumatism,  of  a  painful  and  crippling 
kind  had  laid  its  iron  fingers  upon  Carrie  Payson. 
Arthritis,  the  doctors  called  it.  It  affected  only  the 
fingers  of  the  left  hand — but  because  of  it  the  down 
town  real  estate  office  was  closed.  The  three  women 
were  home  together  now  in  the  big  old  house  on 
Prairie,  and  Mrs.  Payson  was  talking  of  selling  it 


THE  GIRLS  89 

and  moving  into  an  apartment  out  south.  It  was 
about  this  time,  too,  that  she  bought  the  electric — 
one  of  the  thousands  that  now  began  to  skim  Chi 
cago's  boulevards— -and  to  which  Lottie  became  a 
galley  slave.  She  sometimes  thought  humorously 
of  the  shiny  black  levers  as  oars  and  the  miles  of 
boulevard  as  an  endless  sea  to  which  she  was  con 
demned.  Don't  think  that  Lottie  Payson  was  sorry 
for  herself.  If  she  had  been  perhaps  it  would  have 
been  better  for  her.  For  ten  years  or  more  she  had 
been  so  fully  occupied  in  doing  her  duty — or  what 
she  considered  her  obvious  duty — that  she  had 
scarcely  thought  of  her  obligations  toward  herself. 
If  you  had  disturbing  thoughts  you  put  them  out 
of  your  mind.  And  slammed  the  door  on  them. 
When  she  was  twenty-nine,  or  thereabouts,  she  had 
read  a  story  that  stuck  in  her  memory.  It  was 
Balzac's  short  story  of  the  old  maid  who  threw 
herself  into  the  well.  She  went  to  Aunt  Charlotte 
with  it. 

"Now  that's  a  morbid,  unnatural  kind  of  story, 
isn't  it?"  she  said. 

Aunt  Charlotte's  forefinger  made  circles,  round 
and  round,  on  her  black-silk  knee.  Lottie  had  read 
the  story  aloud  to  her.  "No.  It's  true.  And  it's 
natural." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  so.  Now,  when 
you  were  about  forty " 


90  THE  GIRLS 

"When  I  was  thirty-five  or  forty  I  had  you  and 
Belle.  To  tend  to,,  I  mean,  and  look  after.  If  I 
hadn't  had  you  I  don't  say  that  I  would  have  gone 
off  with  the  butcher  boy,  but  I  don't  say  that  I 
wouldn't.  Every  time  I  wiped  your  noses  or  but 
toned  you  up  or  spatted  your  hands  when  you  were 
naughty  it  was  a — well — a " 

"A  sort  of  safety  valve,  you  mean?"  Lottie  sup 
plied  the  figure  for  her. 

"Yes.  Between  thirty-five  and  forty — that's  the 
time  to  look  out  for.  You  can  fool  nature  just 
so  long,  and  then  she  turns  around  and  hits  back." 

"But  look  at  all  the  girls  I  know — women  of  my 
age,  and  older- — who  are  happy,  and  busy  and  con 
tented." 

There  came  a  soft  look  into  the  dark  eyes  beneath 
the  heavy  black  brows.  From  the  vantage  point 
of  her  years  and  experience  she  pronounced  upon 
her  sex.  "Women  are  wonderful,  Lottie,"  she  said. 
"Just  wonderful.  A  good  thing  for  the  race  that 
men  aren't  like  'em.  In  self-control,  I  mean,  and 
that.  Wouldn't  be  any  race,  reckon." 


CHAPTER  VI 

LOTTIE  PAYSON  was  striding  home  through 
the  early  evening  mist,  the  zany  March  wind 
buffeting  her  skirts — no:  skirt;  it  is  1916  and 
women  are  knickerbockered  underneath  instead  of 
petticoated.  She  had  come  from  what  is  known 
on  the  South  Side  as  "spending  the  afternoon." 

Of  late  years  Lottie  had  given  up  this  spending 
of  afternoons.  Choice  and  circumstances  had  com 
bined  to  bring  this  about.  Her  interests  had  grown 
away  from  these  women  who  had  been  her  school 
girl  friends.  The  two  women  with  whom  she  lived 
made  her  the  staff  on  which  they  leaned  more  and 
more  heavily.  Lottie  Payson  was  head  of  the 
household  in  everything  but  authority.  Mrs.  Car 
rie  Payson  still  held  the  reins. 

The  afternoons  had  started  as  a  Reading  Club 
when  Lottie  was  about  twenty-five  and  the  others 
a  year  or  two  older  or  younger.  Serious  reading. 
Yes,  indeed.  Effie  Case  had  said,  "We  ought  to 
improve  our  minds;  not  just  read  anything.  I 
think  it  would  be  fine  to  start  with  the  German 
poets;  Gerty  and  those." 

91 


92  THE  GIRLS 

So  they  had  started  with  Goethe  and  those  but 
found  the  going  rather  rough.  This  guttural  year 
had  been  followed  by  one  of  French  conversation  led 
by  a  catarrhal  person  who  turned  out  to  be  Ver- 
montese  instead  of  Parisian,  which  accounted  for 
their  having  learned  to  pronounce  le  as  "ler."  After 
this  they  had  turned  to  Modern  American  Litera 
ture;  thence,  by  a  process  of  degeneration,  to  Cur 
rent  Topics.  They  had  a  leader  for  the  Current 
Topics  Class,  a  retired  Madam  Chairman.  She 
grafted  the  front-page  headlines  onto  the  Literary 
Digest  and  produced  a  brackish  fruit  tasting  slightly 
of  politics,  invention,  scandal,  dress,  labor,  society, 
disease,  crime,  and  royalty.  One  day,  at  the  last 
minute,,  when  she  had  failed  to  appear  for  the  regu 
lar  meeting — grip,  or  a  heavy  cold — someone  sug 
gested,  "How  about  two  tables  of  bridge  ?"  After 
that  the  Reading  Class  alternated  between  bridge 
and  sewing.  The  sewing  was  quite  individual  and 
might  range  all  the  way  from  satin  camisoles  to 
huckabuck  towels;  from  bead  bags  to  bedspreads. 
The  talk,  strangely  enough,  differed  little  from  that 
of  the  personally-conducted  Current  Topics  Class 
days.  They  all  attended  lectures  pretty  regularly; 
and  symphony  concerts  and  civic  club  meetings. 

In  the  very  beginning  they  had  made  a  rule  about 
refreshments.  "No  elaborate  serving,"  they  had 
said.  "Just  tea  or  coffee,  and  toast.  And  perhaps 


THE  GIRLS  93 

a  strawberry  jam  or  something  like  that.  But  that's 
all.  Nobody  does  it  any  more."  The  salads,  cakes, 
and  ices  of  an  earlier  period  were  considered  vulgar 
for  afternoons.  Besides,  banting  had  come  in,  and 
these  women  were  nearing  thirty ;  some  of  them  had 
passed  it — an  age  when  fat  creeps  slyly  about  the 
hips  and  arms  and  shoulder-blades  and  stubbornly 
remains,,  once  ensconced.  Still,  this  rule  had  slowly 
degenerated  as  had  the  club's  original  purpose.  As 
they  read  less  during  these  afternoons  they  ate 
more.  Beck  Schaefer  discovered  and  served  a  new 
fruit  salad  with  Hawaiian  pineapple  and  marshmal- 
lows  as  its  plot.  When  next  they  met  at  Effie 
Case's  she  served  her  salad  in  little  vivid  baskets 
made  of  oranges  hollowed  out,  with  one  half  of  the 
skin  cut  away  except  for  a  strip  across  the  top  to 
form  the  basket's  handle.  After  that  there  was 
no  more  tea  and  toast.  After  that,,  too,  the  atten 
dance  of  certain  members  of  the  erstwhile  Reading 
Club  became  more  and  more  irregular  and  finally 
ceased  altogether.  These  delinquents  were  the  more 
serious-minded  ones  of  the  group.  One  became  a 
settlement  worker.  Another  went  into  the  office 
of  an  advertising  agency  and  gave  all  her  time  and 
thought  to  emphasising  the  desirability  of  certain 
breakfast  foods,  massage  creams,  chewing  gum, 
and  garters.  Still  another  had  become  a  successful 
Science  Practitioner,  with  an  office  in  the  Lake 


94  THE  GIRLS 

Building  and  a  waiting  room  always  full  of  claims. 
As  for  Lottie  Payson — her  youth  and  health,  her 
vigor  and  courage  all  went  into  the  service  of  two 
old  women.  Of  these  the  one  took  selfishly;  the 
other  reluctantly,  protestingly.  The  Reading  Club 
had  long  ago  ceased  to  exist  for  Lottie. 

In  the  morning  she  drove  her  mother  to  market 
in  the  ramshackle  old  electric.  Mrs.  Payson  sel 
dom  drove  it  herself.  The  peculiar  form  of  rheu 
matism  from  which  she  suffered  rendered  her  left 
hand  almost  useless.  The  electric  had  been  a  fine 
piece  of  mechanism  in  its  day  but  years  of  service 
had  taken  the  spring  from  its  joints  and  the  life 
from,  its  batteries.  Those  batteries  now  were  as 
uncertain  as  a  tired  old  heart  that  may  stop  its  la 
bored  beating  any  moment.  A  balky  starter  and  an 
unreliable  starter,  its  two  levers  needed  two  strong 
hands  with  muscle-control  behind  them.  Besides, 
one  had  to  be  quick.  As  the  Paysons  rumbled 
about  in  this  rheumatic  coach,  haughty  and  con 
temptuous  gas  cars  were  always  hooting  impa 
tiently  behind  them,  nosing  them  perilously  out  of 
the  way  in  the  traffic's  flood,  their  drivers  frequently 
calling  out  ribald  remarks  about  hearses. 

In  this  vehicle  drawn  up  at  the  curb  outside  the 
market  Lottie  would  sit  reading  the  Survey  (Judge 
Barton's  influence  there)  while  her  mother  carried 
on  a  prolonged  and  acrimonious  transaction  with 


THE  GIRLS  95 

Gus.  Thirty-first  Street,,  then  Thirty-fifth  Street, 
had  become  impossible  for  the  family  marketing. 
There  groceries  and  meat  markets  catered  frankly 
to  the  Negro  trade.  Prosperous  enough  trade  it 
seemed,  too,  with  the  windows  piled  with  plump 
broilers  and  juicy  cuts  of  ham.  The  Pay  son  elec 
tric  waited  in  Forty-third  Street  now. 

Gus's  red  good-natured  face  above  the  enveloping 
white  apron  became  redder  and  less  good-natured  as 
Mrs.  Payson's  marketing  progressed.  New  pota 
toes.  A  piece  of  rump  for  a  pot-roast.  A  head  of 
lettuce.  A  basket  of  peaches.  Echoes  floated  out 
to  Lottie  waiting  at  the  curb. 

"Yeh,  but  looka  here,  Mis'  Payson,  I  ain't  makin' 
nothin'  on  that  stuff  as  it  is.  Two  three  cents  at 
the  most.  Say  /  gotta  live  too,,  you  know.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you  don't  want  that,  Mis'  Payson.  Tell  you 
the  truth,  they're  pretty  soft.  Now  here's  a  nice 
fresh  lot  come  in  from  Michigan  this  morning.  I 
picked  'em  out  myself  down  on  South  Water." 

Mrs.  Payson's  decided  tones:  "They'll  do  for 
stewing." 

"All  right.  'S  for  you  to  say.  You  got  to  eat 
'em,  not  me.  On'y  don't  come  around  to-morrow 
tellin'  me  they  was  no  good." 

Her  purchases  piled  on  the  leather-upholstered 
front  seat  of  the  electric,  Mrs.  Payson  would  be 
driven  home,  complaining  acidly.  This  finished 


96  THE  GIRLS 

Gus  for  her.  Robber!  Twenty-seven  cents  for 
lamb  stew ! 

"But  mama,  Belle  paid  thirty-two  cents  last  week. 
I  remember  hearing  her  say  that  lamb  stew  was 
seven  or  eight  cents  two  or  three  years  ago  and  now 
it's  thirty-two  or  thirty " 

"Oh,  Belle!  I'm  surprised  she  ever  has  lamb 
stew.  Always  running  short  on  her  allowance  with 
her  sirloins  and  her  mushrooms  and  her  broilers. 
I  ran  a  household  for  a  whole  month  on  what  she 
uses  in  a  week,  when  I  was  her  age.  I  don't  know 
how  Henry  stands  it." 

This  ceremony  of  marketing  took  half  the  morn 
ing.  It  should  have  required  little  more  than  an 
hour.  On  arriving  home  Mrs.  Payson  usually  com 
plained  of  feeling  faint.  Her  purchases  piled  on 
the  kitchen  table,  she  would  go  over  them,  with 
Hulda,,  the  maid-servant.  "Put  that  lettuce  in  a 
damp  cloth."  The  maid  was  doing  it.  "Rub  a 
little  salt  and  vinegar  into  that  pot  roast."  The 
girl  had  intended  to.  "You'll  have  to  stew  those 
peaches."  That  had  been  apparent  after  the  first 
disdainful  pressing  with  thumb  and  forefinger.  By 
this  time  Hulda's  attitude  was  the  bristling  one 
natural  to  any  human  being  whose  intelligence  has 
been  insulted  by  being  told  to  do  that  which  she 
already  had  meant  to  do.  Mrs.  Payson,  still  wear 
ing  her  hat  (slightly  askew  now)  would  accept  the 


THE  GIRLS  97 

crackers  and  cheese,  or  the  bit  of  cold  lamb  and 
slice  of  bread,  proffered  by  Lottie  to  fend  off  the 
"faintness."  Often  Mrs.  Payson  augmented  this 
with  a  rather  surprising  draught  of  sherry  in  a 
tumbler,  from  the  supply  sent  by  her  son-in-law 
Henry  Kemp. 

On  fine  afternoons  Lottie  often  drove  her  mother 
and  Aunt  Charlotte  to  Jackson  Park,  drawing  up 
at  the  curb  along  the  lake  walk.  A  glorious  sight,, 
that  panorama.  It  was  almost  like  being  at  sea, 
minus  the  discomfort  of  travel.  The  great  blue 
inland  ocean  stretched  before  them,  away,  and 
away,  and  away  until  it  met  the  sky.  For  the  most 
part  the  three  women  did  nothing.  Mrs.  Payson 
had  always  hated  sewing.  Great-aunt  Charlotte 
sometimes  knitted.  Her  eyes  were  not  needed  for 
that.  But  oftenest  she  sat  there  gazing  out  upon 
the  restless  expanse  of  Lake  Michigan,  her  hands 
moving  as  restlessly  as  the  shifting  ageless  waters. 
Great-aunt  Charlotte's  hands  were  seldom  still. 
Always  they  moved  over  her  lap,  smoothing  a  bit 
of  cloth,  tracing  an  imaginary  pattern  with  a  wrin 
kled  parchment  forefinger;  pleating  a  fold  of  her 
napkin  when  at  table.  Hands  with  brown  splotches 
on  the  backs.  Moving,  moving,  and  yet  curiously 
inactive.  Sometimes  Lottie  read  aloud,  but  not 
often.  Her  mother  was  restless  at  being  read  aloud 
to;  besides,  she  liked  stories  with  what  is  known 


98  THE  GIRLS 

as  a  business  interest.  Great-aunt  Charlotte  liked 
romance.  No  villain  too  dastardly — no  heroine  too 
lovely  and  misunderstood — no  hero  too  ardent  and 
athletic  for  Aunt  Charlotte's  taste.  She  swallowed 
them,  boots,,  moonlight,  automobiles,  papers  and 
all.  "Such  stuff!"  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  would  say. 

The  conversation  of  the  three  women  sitting 
there  in  the  little  glass-enclosed  box  was  desultory, 
unvital.  They  had  little  to  say  to  one  another. 
Yet  each  would  have  been  surprised  to  learn  what 
a  reputation  for  liveliness  and  wit  the  other  had 
in  her  own  circle.  Lottie  was  known  among  "the 
girls"  to  be  mischievous  and  gay;  Carrie  Payson 
could  keep  a  swift  and  keen  pace  in  conversation 
with  a  group  of  business  men,  or  after  a  hand  at 
bridge  with  women  younger  than  she  (Mrs.  Payson 
did  not  care  for  the  company  of  women  of  her  own 
age) ;  Great-aunt  Charlotte's  sallies  and  observa 
tions  among  her  septuagenarian  circle  often  brought 
forth  a  chorus  of  cackling  laughter.  Yet  now : 

"Who's  that  coming  along  past  the  Iowa  build 
ing?"  (Relic  of  World's  Fair  days.) 

"I  can't  tell  from  here,  mama." 

"Must  be  walking  to  reduce,  with  that  figure,  on 
a  day  like  this.  It's  that  Mrs.  Deffler,  isn't  it,  that 
lives  near  Belle's?  No,  it  isn't.  She's  too  dark. 
Yes  it  ...  no  ..." 

Lottie  said  aloud,  "No,,  it  isn't."    And  within: 


THE  GIRLS  99 

"If  I  could  only  jump  out  of  this  old  rattle-trap 
and  into  a  boat — a  boat  with  sails  all  spread — and 
away  to  that  place  over  there  that's  the  horizon. 
Oh,  God,  how  I'd  ...  but  I  suppose  I'd  only  land 
at  Indiana  Harbor  instead  of  at  the  horizon/' 
Then  aloud  again,  "If  you  and  Aunt  Charlotte  think 
you'll  be  comfortable  here  for  twenty  minutes  or 
so  I'll  just  walk  up  as  far  as  the  pier  and  back." 

"That's  right,"  from  Aunt  Charlotte.  "Do  you 
good.  What's  more" — she  chuckled  an  almost 
wicked  chuckle — "I'd  never  come  back,  if  I  were 
you." 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  eyed  her  sister  witheringly. 
"Don't  be  childish,  Charlotte." 

Out  on  the  walk,  her  face  toward  the  lake,  her 
head  lifted,  her  hands  jammed  into  her  sweater 
pockets,,  Lottie  was  off. 

A  voice  was  calling  her. 

"What?" 

"Your  hat !     You  forgot  your  hat !" 

"I  don't  want  it."  She  turned  resolutely  away 
from  the  maternal  voice  and  the  hat.  Her  mother's 
head  was  stuck  out  of  the  car  door.  Lottie  heard, 
unheeding,  a  last  faint  "Sunburn!"  and  "Complex 
ion."  A  half  mile  up,  a  half  mile  back.  Walking 
gave  her  a  sense  of  freedom,  of  exhilaration;  helped 
her  to  face  the  rest  of  the  day. 


ioo  THE  GIRLS 

In  the  evening  they  often  drove  round  to  Belle's; 
or  about  the  park  again  on  warm  summer  nights. 

But  on  this  particular  March  afternoon  the  Read 
ing  Club  once  more  claimed  Lottie.  One  of  the 
Readers  had  married.  This  was  her  long-planned 
afternoon  at  home  for  the  girls.  Her  newly-fur 
nished  four-room  apartment  awaited  their  knowing 
inspection.  Her  wedding  silver  and  linen  shone 
and  glittered  for  them.  Celia  Sprague  was  a  bride 
at  thirty-six,  afterva  ten-years'  engagement. 

"Now,  Lottie,/'  she  had  said,  over  the  telephone, 
"you've  just  got  to  come.  Every  one  of  the  girls 
will  be  here.  It's  my  first  party  in  my  new  home. 
Oh,  I  notice  you  find  time  for  your  new  high-brow 
friends.  It  won't  hurt  you  to  come  slumming  this 
once.  Well,  but  your  mother  can  do  without  you 
for  one  afternoon  can't  she !  Good  heavens,  you've 
some  right  to  your " 

Lottie  came.  She  came  and  brought  her  knitting 
as  did  every  other  member  of  the  Reading  Club. 
Satin  camisoles,  lingerie,  hemstitching,  and  bead 
bags  had  been  abandoned  for  hanks  of  wool.  The 
Reading  Club,  together  with  the  rest  of  North 
America,  was  swaddling  all  Belgium  in  a  million 
pounds  of  gray  and  olive-drab  sweaters,  mufflers, 
socks,,  caps,  mittens,  helmets,  stomach  bands.  Purl 
and  knit,  purl  and  knit,  the  Reading  Club  scarcely 
dropped  a  stitch  as  it  exclaimed,  and  cooed  and  ah'd 


THE  GIRLS 

and  oh'd  over  Celia  Sprague  Hornet's  ("Oh  now, 
that's  all  right!  Just  call  me  Celia  Sprague. 
Everybody  does.  I  can't  get  used  to  it  myself,  after 
all  the  years  I've  been — Why  just  last  week  at 
Shield's,  when  I  was  giving  my  charge,  I  told  the 
clerk — ")  new  four-room  apartment  on  Fifty-first 
Street — now  more  elegantly  known  as  Hyde  Park 
Boulevard.  Curiously  enough  Celia,  who  had  been 
rather  a  haggard  and  faded  fiancee  of  thirty-six, 
was  now,  by  some  magic  process,  a  well-preserved 
and  attractive  young  matron  of  thirty-six.  A  cer 
tain  new  assurance  in  her  bearing;  a  blithe  self- 
confidence  in  her  conversation;  a  look  in  her  eyes. 
The  beloved  woman. 

"This  is  the  bedroom.  Weren't  we  lucky  to  get 
two  windows!  The  sun  just  pours  in  all  day — in 
fact,  every  room  is  sunny,  even  the  kitchen."  The 
Reading  Club  regarded  the  bedroom  rather  ner 
vously.  Celia  Sprague  had  been  one  of  them,  so 
long.  And  now  .  .  .  Two  small  French  beds  of 
dark  mahogany,  with  a  silken  counterpane  on  each. 
"No,  just  you  put  your  things  right  down  on  the 
beds,  girls.  It  won't  hurt  the  spreads  a  bit.  Every 
thing  in  this  house  is  going  to  be  used.  That's 
what  it's  for."  On  the  bed  nearest  the  wall  a  little 
rosy  mound  of  lingerie  pillows,  all  a  froth  with  filet, 
and  Irish,  and  eyelet  embroidery  and  cut  work. 
Celia  had  spent  countless  Reading  Club  afternoons 


KT2. 


THE  GIRLS 


on  this  handiwork.  The  rosy  mound  served  no 
more  practical  purpose  than  the  velvet  and  embroid 
ered  slippers  that  used  to  hang  on  the  wall  in  her 
grandmother's  day.  Two  silver-backed  military 
brushes  on  the  dull  mahogany  chest  of  drawers — 
"chiffo-robe,"  Celia  would  tell  you.  The  Reading 
Club  eyed  them,  smiling  a  little.  Celia  opened  a 
closet  door  to  dilate  upon  its  roominess.  A  whole 
battalion  of  carefully-hung  trousers  leaped  out  at 
them  from  the  door-rack.  The  Reading  Club  actu 
ally  stepped  back  a  little,  startled.  "Orville's  clothes 
take  up  more  room,  than  mine,  I  always  tell  him. 
And  everything  just  so.  I  never  saw  such  a  man !" 
She  talked  as  one  to  whom  men  and  their  ways  were 
an  old,,  though  amusing,  story.  "He's  the  neatest 
thing." 

Out  to  the  living  room.  "Oh,  Celia  this  is  sweet! 
I  love  your  desk.  It's  so  different."  The  room  was 
the  conventional  bridal  living  room;  a  plum-col 
oured  velvet  davenport,  its  back  against  a  long, 
very  retiring  table  whose  silk-shaded  lamp  showed 
above  the  davenport's  broad  back  like  someone  play 
ing  hide-and-seek  behind  a  hedge.  There  were 
lamps,  and  lamps,  and  lamps — a  forest  of  them. 
The  book-shelves  on  either  side  of  the  gas-log  grate 
held  a  rather  wistful  library,  the  wedding  gift  "sets" 
of  red  and  gold  eked  out  with  such  school-girl  fill- 


THE  GIRLS  103 

ers  as  the  Pepper  Books,  Hans  Brinker,  and  Louisa 
Alcott. 

"A  woman  twice  a  week — one  day  to  clean  and 
one  to  wash  and  iron.  Orville  wants  me  to  have  a 
maid  but  I  say  what  for  ?  She'd  have  to  sleep  out 
and  you  never  can  depend — besides,  it's  just  play. 
We  have  dinner  out  two  or  three  nights " 

They  were  seated  now,  twittering,  each  with  her 
knitting.  A  well-dressed,  alert  group  of  women, 
their  figures  trim  in  careful  corsets,  their  hair,  teeth, 
complexions  showing  daily  care  and  attention.  The 
long  slim  needles — ebony,  amber,  white — flew  and 
flashed  in  the  sunlight. 

".  .  .  This  is  my  sixth  sweater.  I  do  'em  in  my 
sleep." 

".  .  .  It's  the  heel  that's  the  trick.  Once  I've 
passed  that " 

".  .  .  My  brother  says  we'll  never  go  in.  We're 
a  peace-loving  nation,  he  says.  We  simply  don't 
believe  in  war.  Barbaric." 

The  handiwork  of  each  was  a  complete  character 
index.  The  bride  was  painstaking  and  bungling. 
Her  knitting  showed  frequent  bunches  and  lumps. 
Beck  Schaefer's  needles  were  swift,  brilliant,  and 
slovenly.  Efifie  Case's  sallow  sensual  face,,  her  fra 
gile  waxen  fingers,  showed  her  distaste  for  the 
coarse  fabric  with  which  she  was  expertly  occupied. 
Amy  Stattler,  the  Social  Service  worker,  knitted 


104  THE  GIRLS 

as  though  she  found  knitting  restful.  A  plume  of 
white  showed  startlingly  in  the  soft  black  of  her 
hair.  Prim  sheer  white  cuffs  and  collar  finished 
her  black  gown  at  wrists  and  throat.  Beck 
Schaefer,  lolling  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  her 
legs  crossed  to  show  plump  gray  silk  calves,  her 
feet  in  gray  suede  slippers  ornamented  with  huge 
cut-steel  buckles,,  seemed  suddenly  showy  and  even 
vulgar  in  comparison.  She  was,  paradoxically, 
good-hearted  and  unpopular.  This  last  because  she 
was  given  to  indulging  in  that  dangerous  pastime 
known  as  "being  perfectly  frank/'  Instinctively 
you  shrank  when  Beck  Schaefer  began  a  sentence 
with,  "Now,  I'm  going  to  be  perfectly  frank  with 
you."  She  was  rarely  perfectly  frank  with  the  men, 
however.  She  had  a  way  of  shaking  a  coquettish 
forefinger  at  the  more  elderly  of  these  and  saying, 
"Will  you  never  grow  up!"  People  said  of  Beck 
that  she  lighted  up  well  in  the  evening. 

Lottie  Payson  was  knitting  a  sleeveless,,  olive- 
drab  sweater.  Row  after  row,  inch  after  inch,  it 
grew  and  lengthened,  a  flawless  thing.  Lottie  hated 
knitting.  As  she  bent  over  the  work  her  face  wore 
a  look  for  definition  of  which  you  were  baffled. 
Not  a  sullen  look  nor  brooding,  but  bound.  That 
was  it!  Not  free. 

The  talk  at  first  was  casual,  uninteresting. 

"Lot,  is  that  the  skirt  to  the  suit  Heller  made 


THE  GIRLS  105 

you  last  winter?  .  .  .  His  things  are  as  good  as 
the  second  season  as  they  are  the  first.  Keep  their 
shape.  And  he  certainly  does  know  how  to  get  a 
sleeve  in.  His  shoulder  line  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  the  minute  I  begin  to  gain  I  can  tell  by 
my  waistbands " 

".  .  .  if  you  purl  three  knit  two 

Beck  Schaefer  had  ceased  to  knit.  She  was  look 
ing  at  the  intent  little  group.  She  represented  a 
certain  thwarted  type  of  unwed  woman  in  whom 
the  sensual  is  expressed,  pitifully  enough,  in  terms 
of  silk  and  lacy  lingerie;  in  innuendo;  in  a  hungry 
roving  eye;  in  a  little  droop  at  the  corners  of  the 
mouth;  in  an  over-generous  display  of  plump  arms, 
or  bosom,  or  even  knees.  Beck's  married  friends 
often  took  her  with  them  in  the  evenings  as  a  wel 
come  third  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  a  wedded  tete-a- 
tete.  They  found  a  vicarious  pleasure  in  giving 
Beck  a  good  time. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  brittle  chatter  and 
laughter,,  was  thrust  the  steel  edge  of  Beck  Schaef- 
er's  insolent  voice,  high,  shrill. 

"Well,  Cele,  tell  us  the  truth:  are  you  happy?" 

The  bride,  startled,  dropped  a  stitch,  looked  up, 
looked  down,  flushed.  "Why  yes,  of  course,  you 
bad  thing!" 

"Ye-e-es,  but  I  mean  really  happy.  Come  on 
now,  give  us  the  truth.  Come  on.  Let's  all  tell 


106  THE  GIRLS 

the  truth,  for  once.    Are  you  really  happy,  Cele?" 

The  others  laughed  a  little  uncomfortably. 
Celia's  face  was  red.  Lottie's  voice,  rather  deeper 
than  most  women's,  and  with  a  contralto  note  in  it,, 
was  heard  through  the  staccato  sounds. 

"Well,  at  least,  Beck,  she  won't  have  to  listen  to 
her  married  friends  saying,  'What's  the  matter  with 
the  men  nowadays !  What  do  they  mean  by  letting 
a  wonderful  girl  like  you  stay  single,,  h'm?' ' 

They  laughed  at  that.  The  atmosphere  cleared  a 
little.  But  Beck  Schaefer's  eyes  were  narrowed. 
"Now  I'm  looking  for  information.  We're  all 
friends  here.  We're  all  in  the  same  boat — all  ex 
cept  Celie,  and  she's  climbed  out  of  the  boat  and  onto 
a  raft.  I  want  to  know  if  it  was  worth  the  risk  of 
changing.  Here  we  all  are — except  Celie — failures. 
Any  unmarried  woman  is  a  self-confessed  failure." 

A  babel  of  protest.  "How  about  Jane  Addams! 
.  .  .  Queen  Elizabeth.  .  .  .  Joan  of  Arc!" 

"Queen  Elizabeth  was  a  hussy.  Jane  Addams 
is  a  saint.  Joan  of  Arc — well " 

Lottie  Payson  looked  up  from  her  knitting. 
"Joan  of  Arc  had  the  courage  to  live  her  own  life, 
which  is  more  than  any  of  us  have.  She  called  it 
listening  to  the  voices,  but  I  suppose  what  she  really 
wanted  was  to  get  away  from  home.  If  she  had 
weakened  and  said,  'Ma,  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  leave 
you.  You  need  me  to  tend  the  geese,'  her  mother 


THE  GIRLS  107 

might  have  been  happier,  and  Joan  would  have  lived 
a  lot  longer,  but  the  history  of  France  would  have 
been  different/' 

Beck  Schaefer  frankly  cast  aside  her  knitting, 
hugged  one  knee  with  her  jewel-decked  hands,  and 
waited  for  the  laughter  to  subside.  "You're  all 
afraid  of  the  truth — that's  the  truth.  I'm  willing 
to  come  through " 

"Goodness,  Beck,  where  do  you  pick  up  that  low 
talk!" 

"I'm  willing  to  come  through  if  the  rest  of  you 
are.  We're  all  such  a  lot  of  liars.  We  all  know 
Cele  there  had  to  wait  ten  years  for  her  Orville 
because  he  had  to  support  two  selfish  sisters  and  an 
invalid  mother;  and  even  after  the  mother  died 
the  two  cats  wouldn't  go  to  live  in  two  rooms  as  they 
should  have,  so  that  Celia  and  Orville  could  afford 
to  be  happy  together.  No!  They  wanted  all  the 
comforts  he'd  given  them  for  years  and  so 
Celia " 

"Beck  Schaefer  I  won't  have "  the  bride's 

face  was  scarlet.  She  bit  her  lip. 

"Now  I  know  you're  going  to  say  I'm  a  guest 
in  your  house  and  so  you  can't — and  all  that.  But 
I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  what  you  all  know.  That 
I'd  be  married  to-day  if  it  weren't  for  Sam  Butler's 
mother  who  ought  to  have  died  fifteen  years  ago." 


io8  THE  GIRLS 

"Beck,  you're  crazy!  Now  stop  it!  If  you're 
trying  to  be  funny " 

"But  I'm  not.  I'm  trying  to  be  serious.  And 
you're  all  scared.  Old  Lady  Butler — 'Madame 
Butler'  she  insists  on  it!  I  could  die! — is  almost 
eighty-six,  and  Sam's  crowding  fifty.  He's  a  smart 
business  man — splendid  mind — a  whole  lot  superior 
to  mine ;  I  know  that.  And  yet  when  he's  with  her 
— which  is  most  of  his  spare  time — he's  like  a  baby 
in  her  hands.  She  makes  a  slave  of  him.  She 
hates  any  girl  he  looks  at.  She's  as  jealous  as  a 
maniac.  She  tells  him  all  sorts  of  things  about 
me.  Lies.  He  has  to  go  out  of  the  house  to  tele 
phone  me.  Once  I  called  him  up  at  the  house  and 
he  had  to  have  the  doctor  in  for  her.  That's  the 
way  she  works  it;  tells  him  that  if  she  dies  it  will 
be  on  his  head.,  or  something  Biblical  like  that. 
Imagine !  In  this  day !  And  Sam  pays  every  cent 
of  the  household  expenses  and  dresses  his  mother 
like  a  duchess.  Look  at  me  and  my  mother.  We're 
always  going  around  to  summer  resorts  together. 
Just  two  pals !  M-m-m !  'Don't  tell  me  you're  the 
mother  of  a  big  girl  like  that!  Why,  you  look  like 
sisters!'  Big  girl — me!  That  ought  to  have  five 
chil — not  that  I  want  'em  .  .  .  now.  But  when 
ever  I  see  one  of  those  young  mothers  with  her  old 
daughter  on  a  summer  resort  veranda  I  want  to 
go  up  to  the  tired  old  daughter  and  say,  'Listen, 


THE  GIRLS  109 

gal.  Run  away  with  the  iceman,  or  join  a  circus, 
or  take  up  bare-legged  dancing — anything  to  ex 
press  yourself  before  it's  too  late/  ' 

They  had  frankly  stopped  their  knitting  now. 
The  bride's  lip  was  caught  nervously  between  her 
teeth.  Even  thus  her  face  still  wore  a  crooked  and 
uncertain  smile — the  smile  of  the  harassed  hostess 
whose  party  had  taken  an  unmanageable  turn  for 
the  worse. 

It  was  Amy  Stattler  who  first  took  up  her  knitting 
again,,  her  face  serene.  "How  about  those  of  us 
who  are  doing  constructive  work?  I  suppose  we're 
failures  too!"  She  straightened  a  white  cuff 
primly.  "I  have  my  Work." 

"All  right.  Have  it.  But  I  notice  that  didn't 
keep  you  from  wanting  to  marry  that  brainy  little 
kike  Socialist  over  on  the  West  Side;  and  it  didn't 
keep  your  people  from  interfering  and  influencing 
you,  and  making  your  life  so  miserable  that  you 
hadn't  the  spirit  left  to " 

But  Amy  Stattler's  face  was  so  white  and  drawn 
and  haggard — she  was  suddenly  so  old — that  even 
Beck  Schaefer's  mad  tongue  ceased  its  cruel  lash 
ing  for  a  moment ;  but  only  for  a  moment. 

Lottie  Payson  rolled  her  work  into  a  neat  bun 
dle  and  jabbed  a  needle  through  it.  She  sat  for 
ward,  her  fine  dark  eyebrows  gathered  into  a  frown 
of  pain  and  decent  disapproval. 


no  THE  GIRLS 

"Beck,  dear,  you're  causing  a  lot  of  needless  dis 
comfort.  You're  probably  nervous  to-day,  or  some 
thing " 

"I'm  nothing  of  the  kind.  Makes  me  furious  to 
be  told  I'm  nervous  when  I'm  merely  trying  to 
present  some  interesting  truths." 

"The  truth  isn't  always  helpful  just  because  it 
hurts,  you  know." 

"A  little  truth  certainly  wouldn't  hurt  you,  Lot 
tie  Payson.  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  help  any,  either, 
to  acknowledge  that  you're  a  kind  of  unpaid  nurse- 
companion  to  two  old  women  who  are  eating  you 
alive ! — when  your  friend  Judge  Barton  herself  says 
that  you've  got  a  knack  with  delinquent  girls  that 
would  make  you  invaluable  on  her  staff.  And  now 
that  you're  well  past  thirty  I  suppose  your  mother 
doesn't  sometimes  twit  you  with  your  maiden  state, 
h'm?  Don't  tell  me!  As  for  Effie  Case  there " 

"Oh,  my  goodness  Beck,  spare  muh !  I've  been 
hiding  behind  my  knitting  needle  hoping  you 
wouldn't  see  me.  I  know  what's  the  matter  with 
you.  You've  been  sneaking  up  to  those  psycho 
analysis  lectures  that  old  Beardsley's  giving  at  Har 
per  Hall.  Shame  on  you!  Nice  young  gal  like 
you." 

"Yes — and  I  know  wrhat's  the  matter  with  you, 
too,  Effie.  Why  you're  always  lolling  around  at 


THE  GIRLS  in 

massage  parlors  and  beauty  specialists,  sleeping 
away  half  the  day  in  some  stuffy  old " 

With  lightning  quickness  Effie  Case  wadded  her 
work  into  a  ball,  lifted  her  arm,  and  hurled  the 
tight  bundle  full  at  Beck  Shaefer's  head.  It  struck 
her  in  the  face,,  rebounded,  unrolled  softly  at  her 
feet.  Effie  laughed  her  little  irritating  hysterical 
laugh.  Beck  Schaefer  kicked  the  little  heap  of 
wool  with  a  disdainful  suede  slipper. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  have  spilled  all  this  if  Cele 
had  been  willing  to  tell  the  truth.  I  said  we  were 
failures  and  we  are  because  we've  allowed  some 
one  or  something  to  get  the  best  of  us — to  pile  up 
obstacles  that  we  weren't  big  enough  to  tear  down. 
We've  all  gone  in  for  suffrage,  and  bleeding  Bel 
gium,  and  no  petticoats,  and  uplift  work,  and  we 
think  we're  modern.  Well,  we're  not.  We're  a 
past  generation.  We're  the  unselfish  softies.  Watch 
the  eighteen-year-olds.  They've  got  the  method. 
They're  not  afraid." 

Lottie  Payson  laughed.  Her  face  was  all  alight. 
"You  ought  to  hear  my  niece  Charley  talk  to  me. 
You'd  think  I  was  eighteen  and  she  thirty-two." 

Beck  Schaefer  nodded  vehemently.  "I  know  those 
girls — the  Charley  kind.  Scared  to  death  of  'em. 
They're  so  sorry  for  me.  And  sort  of  contemptu 
ous.  Catch  Charley  marrying  ten  years  too  late, 
like  Celia  here,  and  missing  all  the  thrill." 


H2  THE  GIRLS 

"I  haven't !"  cried  the  harassed  Celia,  in  despera 
tion.  "I  haven't!  Orville's  the  grandest — — " 

"Of  course  he  is.  But  you  can't  have  any  thrill 
about  a  man  you've  waited  ten  years  for.  Why 
won't  you  be  honest!" 

And  suddenly  the  plump  little  silk-clad  hostess 
stood  up,  her  face  working,  her  eyes  bright  with 
tears  that  would  not  wink  away. 

"All  right,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth." 

"No,  Cele— no!" 

"Sit  down,  Celia.     Beck's  a  little  off  to-day." 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  her.  Waspish  old 
girl,  that's  what " 

Beck  regarded  her  victim  between  narrowed  lids. 
"You're  afraid." 

"I'm  not.  Why  should  I  be.  Orville's  the  kind 
est  man  in  the  world.  I  thought  so  before  I  mar 
ried  him,  and  now  I  know  it." 

"Oh— kind !"  scoffed  Beck.  "But  what's  that  got 
to  do  with  happiness?  Happiness!" 

"If  you  mean  transports — no.  Orville's  fifty. 
He's  set  in  his  ways.  I — I'm  nearer  thirty-seven 
than  thirty-six.  And  at  that  I've  only  lied  one  year 
about  my  age — don't  tell  Orville.  He's  crazy  about 
me.  He  just  follows  me  around  this  flat  like  a — - 
like  a  child.  And  I  suppose  that's  really  what  he 
is  to  me  now- — a  kind  of  big,  wonderful  child.  I 
have  to  pamper  him,  and  reason  with  him,  and 


THE  GIRLS  113 

punish  him,  and  coax,  and  love,  and — tend  him. 
I  suppose  ten  years  ago  we'd — he'd " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  with  a  little  broken  cry. 

"Beck,  you're  a  pig!"  Lottie  Payson's  arms 
were  about  Celia.  "In  her  own  house,  too,  and  her 
first  party.  Really  you're  too " 

A  coloured  maid  stood  in  the  doorway — a  South 
Side  Hebe — her  ebony  face  grotesque  between  the 
lacy  cap  and  apron  with  which  Celia  had  adorned 
her  for  the  day.  She  made  mysterious  signals  in 
Celia's  direction. 

'  "  'F  yo'  ladies  come  in  ev'thin's  all — "  She 
smiled;  a  sudden  gash  of  white  in  the  black.  The 
tantalizing  scent  of  freshly  made  coffee  filled  the 
little  flat.  They  moved  toward  the  dining  room, 
talking,  laughing,  pretending. 

"Oh,  how  pretty!  .  .  .  Cele!  A  real  party! 
Candles  and  everything  .  .  .  What  a  stunning  pat 
tern — your  silver.  So  plain  and  yet  so  rich  .  .  . 
My  word!  Chicken  salad!  Bang  goes  another 
pound!" 

Chicken  salad  indeed.  Little  hot  flaky  biscuits, 
too,  bearing  pools  of  golden  butter  within.  Great 
black  oily  ripe  olives.  Salted  almonds  in  silver 
dishes.  Coffee  with  rich  yellow  cream.  A  whipped- 
cream  covered  icebox  cake. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  spank  Beck  and  send  her 
from  the  table.  She  doesn't  deserve  this." 


ii4  THE  GIRLS 

At  five-thirty,  as  they  stood,  hatted  and  ready 
for  the  street,  chorusing  their  good-byes  in  the  little 
hallway,  a  key  clicked  in  the  lock.  Orville! 

They  looked  a  little  self-conscious. 

"Well,  well,  well!     I've  run  into  a  harem!" 

"We  haven't  left  a  thing  for  your  dinner.  And 
it  was  so  good." 

"Not  running  away  because  I'm  home,  are  you?" 
His  round  face  beamed  on  them.  He  smelled  of 
the  fresh  outdoors,  and  of  strong  cigars,  and  of 
a  vaguely  masculine  something  that  was  a  blending 
of  business  office  and  barber's  lotion  and  overcoat. 
The  Reading  Club  scented  it,  sensitively.  Celia 
came  over  to  him  swiftly,  there  in  the  little  hall, 
and  slid  one  arm  about  his  great  waist.  A  plump 
man,  Orville,  with  a  round,  kindly,  commonplace 
face.  He  patted  her  silken  shoulder.  She  faced 
the  Reading  Club  defiantly,  triumphantly.  "What 
have  you  girls  been  talking  about,  h'mm?"  Or 
ville  laughed  a  tolerant  chuckling  laugh.  "You 
girls.  Settled  the  war  yet?" 

Beck  Schaefer  threw  up  her  chin  a  little.  "We've 
been  talking  about  you,  if  you  really  want  to  know." 

He  reeled.  "Oh,  my  God!  Cele,  did  you  take 
the  old  man's  part?" 

Celia  moved  away  from  him  then  a  little,  her 
face  flushing.  Constraint  fell  upon  the  group.  Lot 
tie  Payson  stepped  over  to  him  then  and  put  one 


THE  GIRLS  115 

hand  on  his  broad  shoulder.  "She  didn't  need  to 
take  your  part,  Orville.  We  were  all  for  you." 

"Except  me !"  shrilled  Beck. 

"Oh,  you!"  retorted  Orville,,  heavily  jocular. 
"You're  jealous."  He  rubbed  his  chin  ruefully. 
"Wait  till  I've  shaved,  Beck,  and  I'll  give  you  a 
kiss  to  make  you  happy." 

"Orville!"  But  Celia's  bearing  was  again  that 
of  the  successful  matron — the  fortunate  beloved 
woman. 

Beck  Schaefer  took  the  others  home  in  her  elec 
tric.  Lottie,  seized  with  a  sudden  distaste  for  the 
glittering  enamelled  box  elected  to  walk,  though 
she  knew  it  would  mean  being  late. 

"Figger  ?"  Beck  Schaefer  asked,  settling  her  own 
plump  person  in  the  driver's  seat. 

"Air,,"  Lottie  answered,  not  altogether  truth 
fully;  and  drew  a  long  breath.  She  turned  away 
from  the  curb.  The  electric  trundled  richly  off, 
its  plate  glass  windows  filled  with  snugly  tailored 
shoulders,  furs,  white  gloves,  vivid  hats.  Lottie 
held  one  hand  high  in  farewell,  palm,  out,  as  the 
glittering  vehicle  sped  silently  away,  lurched  fatly 
around  a  corner  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LOTTIE  was  late.  Shockingly  late.  Even 
though,  tardily  conscience-stricken,  she  had  de 
serted  walk,  sunset,  and  lake  mist  for  a  crowded 
and  creeping  Indiana  Avenue  car  at  Forty-seventh 
Street,  she  was  unforgivably  late,  according  to  her 
mother's  stern  standards.  This  was  Friday  night. 
Every  Friday  night  Henry,  Belle,  and  Charley 
Kemp  took  dinner  with  the  Paysons  in  the  old  house 
on  Prairie  Avenue.  Every  Friday  night.  No  mat 
ter  what  else  the  Kemps  might  prefer  to  do  on 
that  night,  they  didn't  do  it.  Each  Friday  morn 
ing  Belle  Kemp  would  say  to  her  husband,  "This 
is  Friday,  Henry.  We're  having  dinner  at  mama's, 
remember." 

"I  might  have  to  work  to-night,  Belle.  We're 
taking  inventory  this  week." 

"Henry,  you  know  how  mama  feels  about  Fri 
day  dinner." 

"M-hmph,"  Henry  would  grunt;  and  make  a 
mental  note  about  an  extra  supply  of  cigars  for 
the  evening.  His  favorite  nightmare  was  that  in 
which  he  might  slap  his  left-hand  vest  pocket  only 

116 


THE  GIRLS  117 

to  find  it  empty  of  cigars  at  8:30  on  a  Friday  eve 
ning  at  Mother  Payson's.  The  weekly  gathering 
was  a  tradition  meaninglessly  maintained.  The 
two  families  saw  quite  enough  of  one  another  with 
out  it.  Mrs.  Payson  was  always  "running  over  to 
Belle's  for  a  minute/'  But  these  Friday  dinners  had 
started  before  Charley  was  born.  Now  they  con 
stituted  an  iron-clad  custom.  Mrs.  Payson  called 
it  "keeping  up  the  family  life." 

Lottie,  hospitable  by  nature,  welcomed  dinner 
guests ;  but  she  rather  dreaded  these  Friday  nights. 
There  was  so  little  of  spontaneity  about  them,  and 
so  much  of  family  frankness.  Some  time  during 
the  evening  Belle  would  say,  "Lottie,  that  dress  is 
at  least  two  inches  too  long.  No  wonder  you  never 
look  smart.  Your  clothes  are  always  so  ladylike." 

Lottie  would  look  ruefully  down  her  own  length, 
a  mischievous  smile  crinkling  the  corners  of  her 
eyes.  "And  I  thought  I  looked  so  nice !  Not  chic, 
perhaps,  but  nice!"  Her  slim,  well-shod  feet,  her 
neat  silken  ankles,  her  sensible  skirt,  her  collars 
and  cuffs,  or  blouses  and  frills  were  always  so 
admirably  trim,,  so  crisply  fresh  where  freshness 
was  required.  Looking  at  her  you  had  such  confi 
dence  in  the  contents  of  her  bureau  drawers. 

"Oh — nice!  Who  wants  to  look  nice,  nowa 
days!" 

Mrs.  Payson  always  insisted  on  talking  business 


n8  THE  GIRLS 

with  her  courteous  but  palpably  irked  son-in-law. 
Her  views  and  methods  were  not  his.  When,  in 
self-defense,  he  hinted  this  to  her  she  resented  it 
spiritedly  with,  "Well,  I  ran  a  successful  business 
and  supported  a  household  before  you  had  turned 
your  first  dollar,  Henry  Kemp.  I'm  not  a  fool." 

"I  should  think  not,  Mother  Payson.  But  things 
have  changed  since  your  time.  Methods/' 

He  knew  his  wife  was  tapping  a  meaningful  foot ; 
and  that  Charley's  mischievous  intelligent  eyes  held 
for  him  a  message  of  quick  understanding  and  sym 
pathy.  Great  friends,  he  and  Charley,  though  in 
rare  moments  of  anger  he  had  been  known  to  speak 
of  her  to  his  wife  as  "your  daughter." 

Mrs.  Payson  was  always  ready  with  a  sugges 
tion  whereby  Henry  Kemp  could  improve  his  busi 
ness.  Henry  Kemp's  business  was  that  of  import 
ing  china,  glassware,  and  toys.  Before  the  war 
he  had  been  on  the  road  to  a  more  than  substantial 
fortune.  France,  Italy,  Bohemia,  and  Bavaria 
meant,  to  Henry  Kemp,  china  from  Limoges ;  glass 
ware  from  Venice  and  Prague;  toys  from  Niirn- 
berg  and  Munich.  But  Zeppelin  bombs,,  long-dis 
tance  guns,  and  U-boats  had  shivered  glass,  china, 
and  toys  into  fragments  these  two  years  past.  The 
firm  had  turned  to  America  for  these  products  and 
found  it  sadly  lacking.  American  dolls  were  wooden- 
faced;  American  china  was  heavy,  blue-white; 


THE  GIRLS  119 

American  glass-blowing  was  a  trade,  not  an  art. 
Henry  Kemp  hardly  dared  think  of  what  another 
year  of  war  would  mean  to  him. 

Lottie  thought  of  these  things  as  the  Indiana 
Avenue  car  droned  along.  Her  nerves  were  push 
ing  it  vainly.  She'd  be  terribly  late.  And  she 
had  told  Hulda  that  she'd  be  home  in  time  to  beat 
up  the  Roquefort  dressing  that  Henry  liked.  Oh, 
well,  dinner  would  be  delayed  a  few  minutes.  Any 
way,  it  was  much  better  than  dinner  alone  with 
mother  and  Aunt  Charlotte.  Dinner  alone  with 
mother  and  Aunt  Charlotte  had  grown  to  be  some 
thing  of  a  horror.  Lottie  dreaded  and  feared  the 
silence  that  settled  down  upon  them.  Sometimes  she 
would  realize  that  the  three  of  them  had  sat  al 
most  through  the  meal  without  speaking.  Lottie 
struggled  to  keep  up  the  table-talk.  There  was 
something  sodden  and  deadly  about  these  conversa- 
tionless  dinners.  Lottie  would  try  to  chat  brightly 
about  the  day's  happenings.  But  when  these  hap 
penings  had  just  been  participated  in  by  all  three, 
as  was  usually  the  case,  the  brightness  of  their  re 
counting  was  likely  to  be  considerably  tarnished. 

Silence.  A  sniff  from  Mrs.  Payson.  "That  girl's 
making  coffee  again  for  herself.  If  she's  had  one 
cup  to-day  she's  had  ten.  I  get  a  pound  of  coffee 
every  three  days,  on  my  word." 


120  THE  GIRLS 

'They  all  do  that,  mother — all  the  Swedish  girls." 

Silence. 

"The  lamb's  delicious,  isn't  it,  Aunt  Charlotte?" 

Mrs.  Payson  disagreed  before  Aunt  Charlotte 
could  agree.  "It's  tough.  I'm  going  to  have  a  talk 
with  that  Gus  to-morrow." 

Silence. 

The  swinging  door  squeaking  at  the  entrance  of 
Hulda  with  a  dish. 

"No;  not, for  me."  Aunt  Charlotte  refusing  an 
other  helping. 

Silence  again  except  for  the  sound  of  food  being 
masticated.  Great-aunt  Charlotte  had  an  amazingly 
hearty  appetite.  Its  revival  had  dated  from  the  ac 
quisition  of  the  new  teeth.  Now,  when  Aunt  Char 
lotte  smiled,  her  withered  lips  drew  away  to  dis 
close  two  flawless  rows  of  blue-white  teeth.  They 
flashed,,  incongruously  perfect,  in  contrast  with  the 
sere  and  wrinkled  fabric  of  her  face.  There  had 
been  talk  of  drawing  Mrs.  Payson's  teeth  as  a  pos 
sible  cure  for  her  rheumatic  condition,  but  she  had 
fought  the  idea  stubbornly. 

"They  make  me  tired.  When  they  don't  know 
what  else  to  do  they  pull  your  teeth.  They  pull 
your  teeth  for  everything  from  backache  to  dia 
betes.  And  when  it  doesn't  help  they  say,  Tardon 
me.  My  mistake,'  and  there  you  are  without  your 
teeth  and  with  your  aches.  Fads!" 


THE  GIRLS  121 

She  had  aired  these  views  most  freely  during  the 
distressing  two  weeks  following  Aunt  Charlotte's 
dental  operation,  when  soft,  slippery  shivery  concoc 
tions  had  had  to  be  specially  prepared  for  her  in 
the  Payson  kitchen. 

Lottie  would  scurry  about  in  her  mind  for  possi 
ble  table  talk.  Anything — anything  but  this  sod 
den  silence. 

"How  would  you  two  girls  like  to  see  a  picture 
this  evening,  h'm?  If  we  go  early  and  get  seats 
well  toward  the  front,  so  that  Aunt  Charlotte  can 
see,  I'll  drive  you  over  to  Forty-third.  I  wonder 
what's  at  the  Vista.  I'll  look  in  the  paper.  I  hope 
Hulda  saved  the  morning  paper.  Perhaps  Belle 
will  drive  over  and  meet  us  for  the  first  show — 
no,  she  can't  either,  I  remember;  she  and  Henry 
are  having  dinner  north  to-night.  Most  of  Belle's 
friends  are  moving  north.  Do  you  know,  I  think — " 

"The  South  Side's  always  been  good  enough  for 
me  and  always  will  be.  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  this 
fad  for  swarming  over  to  the  north  shore.  If 
they'd  improve  the  acres  and  acres  out  Bryn  Mawr 
way " 

Mrs.  Payson  was  conversationally  launched  on 
South  Side  real  estate.  Lottie  relaxed  with  relief. 

Sometimes  she  fancied  that  she  caught  Great- 
aunt  Charlotte's  misleadingly  bright  old  eyes  upon 
her  with  a  look  that  was  at  once  knowing  and  sym- 


122  THE  GIRLS 

pathetic.  On  one  occasion  that  surprising  septua 
genarian  had  startled  and  mystified  Mrs.  Payson 
and  Lottie  by  the  sudden  and  explosive  utterance 
of  the  word,,  "Game-fish!"  It  was  at  dinner. 

"What?  What's  that?"  Mrs.  Payson  had  ex 
claimed;  and  had  looked  about  the  table  and  then 
at  her  sister  as  though  that  thoughtful  old  lady  had 
taken  leave  of  her  senses.  "What!"  They  were 
undeniably  having  tongue  with  spinach. 

"Game-fish!"  repeated  Aunt  Charlotte  Thrift, 
gazing  straight  at  Lottie.  Lottie  waited,  expec 
tantly.  "Your  Grandfather  Thrift  had  a  saying: 
'Only  the  game-fish  swim  upstream/  ' 

"Oh,"  said  Lottie ;  and  even  coloured  a  little,  like 
a  girl. 

Mrs.  Payson  had  regarded  her  elder  sister  pity 
ingly.  "Well,  how  did  you  happen  to  drag  that  in,, 
Charlotte?"  In  a  tone  which  meant,  simply — 
"Childish!  Senile!" 

On  this  particular  Friday  night  the  Kemps  were 
indeed  there  as  Lottie  ran  quickly  up  the  front  steps 
of  the  house  on  Prairie.  The  Kemp  car,  glossy  and 
substantial,  stood  at  the  curb.  Charley  drove  it 
with  dashing  expertness.  At  the  thought  of  Char 
ley  the  anxious  frown  between  Lottie  Payson's  fine 
brows  smoothed  itself  out.  Between  aunt  and  niece 
existed  an  affection  and  understanding  so  strong, 
so  deep,  so  fine  as  to  be  more  than  a  mere  blood 


THE  GIRLS  123 

bond.  Certainly  no  such  feeling  had  ever  existed 
between  Lottie  and  her  sister  Belle;  and  no  such 
understanding  united  Belle  and  her  daughter  Char- 
ley. 

The  old  walnut  and  glass  front  door  slammed 
after  Lottie.  They  were  in  the  living  room — the 
back  parlor  of  Isaac  Thrift's  day. 

"Lottie!"    Mrs.  Payson's  voice;  metallic. 

"Yes." 

"Well!" 

Mrs.  Payson  was  standing,  facing  the  door  as 
Lottie  came  in.  She  was  using  her  cane  this  eve 
ning.  She  always  walked  with  her  cane  when  she 
was  displeased  with  Lottie  or  Belle;  some  obscure 
reason  existed  for  it.  She  reminded  you  of  one 
of  these  terrifying  old  dowagers  of  the  early  Eng 
lish  novels. 

"Hello,  Belle!    Hello,  Henry!    Sorry  I'm  late." 

Charley  Kemp  came  over  to  Lottie  in  the  door 
way.  Niece  and  aunt  clasped  hands — a  strange,, 
brief,  close  grip,  like  that  between  two  men.  No* 
words. 

"Late !  I  should  think  you  are  late.  You  knew 
this  was  Friday  night." 

"Now,  now  mother."  Henry  Kemp  had  a 
man's  dread  of  a  scene.  "Lottie's  not  a  child. 
We've  only  been  here  a  few  minutes." 

"She  might  as  well  be — "  ignoring  his  second 


124  THE  GIRLS 

remark.  "Tell  Hulda  we're  all  here.  Call  Aunt 
Charlotte." 

"I'll  just  skip  back  and  beat  up  the  Roquefort 
dressing  first.  Hulda  gets  it  so  lumpy  .  .  .  Min 
ute  .  .  ." 

"Lottie !"  Mrs.  Payson's  voice  was  iron.  "Lot 
tie  Payson,  you  change  your  good  suit  skirt  first !" 

Henry  Kemp  shouted.  Mrs.  Payson  turned  on 
him.  "Well,  what's  funny  about  that !"  He  buried 
his  face  in  the  evening  paper. 

Belle's  rather  languid  tones  were  heard  now  for 
the  first  time.  "Lot,  is  that  your  winter  hat  you're 
still  wearing?" 

"Winter? — You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  I  ought 
to  be  wearing  a  summer  one!  Already!"  Lottie 
turned  to  go  upstairs,,  dutifully.  The  suit  skirt. 

"Already!     Why,  it's  March.     Everybody " 

"I  slipped  and  almost  fell  on  the  ice  at  the  corner 
of  twenty-ninth."  Lottie  retorted,  laughingly,  lean 
ing  over  the  balustrade. 

"What  early  difference  does  that  make !" 

A  rather  grim  snort  here  from  Charley  who  was 
leaping  up  the  stairs  after  her  aunt,  like  a  hand 
some  young  colt. 

Lottie's  room  was  at  the  rear  of  the  second  floor 
looking  out  upon  the  back  yard.  A  drear  enough 
plot  of  ground  now,  black  with  a  winter's  dregs 
of  snow  and  ice.  In  the  spring  and  summer  Lot- 


THE  GIRLS  125 

tie  and  Great-aunt  Charlotte  coaxed  it  into  a  riot 
of  colour  that  defied  even  the  South  Side  pall  of 
factory  smoke  and  Illinois  Central  cinders.  A  bor 
der  of  old-fashioned  flowers  ran  along  either  side 
of  the  high  board  fence.  There  were  daisies  and 
marigolds,  phlox  and  four-o'clocks,,  mignonette  and 
verbenas,  all  polka-dotted  with  soot  but  defiantly 
lovely. 

On  her  way  up  the  stairs,  Lottie  had  been  unfas 
tening  coat  and  skirt  with  quick,  sure  fingers.  She 
tossed  the  despised  hat  on  the  bed.  Now,  as  Charley 
entered,  her  aunt  stepped  out  of  the  suit  skirt  and 
stood  in  her  knickers,  a  trim,,  well  set-up  figure, 
neatly  articulated,  hips  flat  and  well  back;  bust 
low  and  firm;  legs  sturdy  and  serviceable,  the  calf 
high  and  not  too  prominent.  She  picked  up  the 
skirt,  opened  her  closet  door,  snatched  another  skirt 
from  the  hook. 

Mrs.  Payson's  voice  from  the  foot  of  the  stair 
way.  "Lottie,  put  on  a  dress — the  blue  silk  one. 
Ben  Gartz  is  coming  over.  He  telephoned." 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Lottie;  hung  the  skirt  again  on 
its  hook;  took  out  the  blue  silk. 

"Do  you  mean,/'  demanded  Charley,  "that  Grand 
ma  made  an  engagement  for  you  without  your  per 
mission?"  (You  ought  to  hear  Charley  on  the  sub 
ject  of  personal  freedom). 


126  THE  GIRLS 

"Oh,  well — Ben  Gartz.  He  and  mother  talk  real 
estate,  or  business." 

"But  he  comes  to  see  you." 

Charley  had  swung  herself  up  to  the  footboard 
of  the  old  walnut  bed  that  Lottie  herself  had  cream- 
enamelled.  A  slim,  pliant  young  thing,  this  Charley, 
in  her  straight  dark  blue  frock.  She  was  so  mis- 
leadingly  pink  and  white  and  golden  that  you  neg 
lected  to  notice  the  fine  brow,,  the  chin  squarish  in 
spite  of  its  soft  curves,  the  rather  deep-set  eyes. 
From  her  perch  Charley's  long  brown-silk  legs 
swung  f  riendlily.  You  saw  that  her  stockings  were 
rolled  neatly  and  expertly  just  below  knees  as  bare 
and  hardy  as  a  Highlander's.  She  eyed  her  aunt 
critically. 

"Why  in  the  world  do  you  wear  corsets,  Lotta?" 
(This  "Lotta"  was  a  form  of  affectation  and  affec 
tion.) 

"Keep  the  ol'  turn  in,  of  course.  I'm  no  lithe 
young  gazelle  like  you." 

"Gained  a  little,  haven't  you — this  winter?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  have."  Lottie  was  stepping  into 
the  blue  silk  and  dancing  up  and  down  as  she  pulled 
it  on  to  keep  from  treading  on  it.  "I  don't  get 
enough  exercise,  that's  the  trouble.  That  darned 
old  electric!" 

Charley  faced  her  sternly  from  the  footboard. 
"Well,  if  you  will  insist  on  being  the  Family  Sacri- 


THE  GIRLS  127 

fice.  Making  a  'bus  line  of  yourself  between  here 
and  the  market — the  market  and  the  park — the  park 
and  our  house.  The  city  ought  to  make  you  pay 
for  a  franchise/' 

"Now— Charley " 

"Oh,  you're  disgusting,  that's  what  you  are,  Lotta 
Payson !  You  practically  never  do  anything  you 
really  want  to  do.  You're  so  nobly  self-sacrificing 
that  it's  sickening.  It's  a  weakness.  It's  a  vice." 

"Yes  ma'am,"  said  Lotta  gravely.  "And  if  you 
kids  don't  do,  say,  and  feel  everything  that  comes 
into  your  heads  you  go  around  screaming  about 
inhibitions.  If  you  new-generation  youngsters 
don't  yield  to  every  impulse  you  think  you're  being 
stunted." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  try  things  and  find  they're  bad 
for  me  than  never  try  them  at  all.  Look  at  Aunt 
Charlotte!" 

Lottie  at  the  mirror  was  dabbing  at  her  nose 
with  a  hasty  powder-pad.  She  regarded  Charley 
now,  through  the  glass.  "Aunt  Charlotte's  more — 
more  understanding  than  mother  is." 

"Yes,  but  it's  been  pretty  expensive  knowledge 
for  her,  I'll  just  bet.  Some  day  I'm  going  to  ask 
her  why  she  never  married.  Great-grandmother 
Thrift  had  a  hand  in  it;  you  can  tell  that  by  look 
ing  at  that  picture  of  her  in  the  hoops  trimmed  with 
bands  of  steel,  or  something.  Gosh!" 


128  THE  GIRLS 

"You  wouldn't  ask  her,  Charley!" 

"I  would  too.  She's  probably  dying  to  tell.  Any 
body  likes  to  talk  of  their  love  affairs.  I'm  going 
to  cultivate  Aunt  Charlotte,  I  am.  Research  work." 

"Yes,,"  retorted  Lottie,  brushing  a  bit  of  powder 
from  the  front  of  the  blue  silk,  "do.  And  lend 
her  your  Havelock  Ellis  and  Freud  first,  so  that 
she'll  at  least  have  a  chance  to  be  shocked,  poor 
dear.  Otherwise  she  won't  know  what  you're  driv 
ing  at." 

"You're  a  worm,"  said  Charley.  She  jumped  off 
the  footboard,,  took  her  aunt  in  her  strong  young 
arms  and  hugged  her  close.  An  unusual  demonstra 
tion  for  Charley,  a  young  woman  who  belonged  to 
the  modern  school  that  despises  sentiment  and 
frowns  upon  weakly  emotional  display;  to  whom 
rebellion  is  a  normal  state;  clear-eyed,  remorseless, 
honest,  fearless,  terrifying;  the  first  woman  since 
Eve  to  tell  the  truth  and  face  the  consequences. 
Lottie,,  looking  at  her,  often  felt  puerile  and  inef 
fectual.  "You  don't  have  half  enough  fun.  And 
no  self-expression.  Come  on  and  join  a  gymnas 
tic  dancing  class.  You'd  make  a  dancer.  Your 
legs  are  so  nice  and  muscular.  You'd  love  it.  Won 
derful  exercise." 

She  sprang  away  suddenly  and  stood  poised  for 
a  brief  moment  in  what  is  known  as  First  Position 
in  dancing.  "Tour  jete — "  she  took  two  quick  slid- 


THE  GIRLS  129 

ing  steps,  turned  and  leaped  high  and  beautifully — 
"tour  jete — "  and  again,  bringing  up  short  of  the 
wall,  her  breathing  as  regular  as  though  she  had  not 
moved.  "Try  it." 

Lottie  eyed  her  enviously.  Charley  had  had  les 
sons  in  gymnastic  dancing  since  the  age  of  nine. 
Her  work  now  was  professional  in  finish,  tech 
nique,  and  beauty.  She  could  do  Polish  Csardas  in 
scarlet  boots,,  or  Psyche  in  wisps  of  pink  chiffon 
and  bare  legs,  or  Papillons  d' Amour  in  flesh  tights, 
ballet  skirts  aflare  and  snug  pink  satin  bodice,  with 
equal  ease  and  brilliance.  She  was  always  threat 
ening  to  go  on  the  stage  and  more  than  half  meant 
it.  Charley  would  no  more  have  missed  a  perform 
ance  of  the  latest  Russian  dancers,  or  of  Pavlova, 
or  the  Opera  on  special  ballet  nights  than  a  student 
surgeon  would  miss  an  important  clinic.  In  the 
earlier  stages  of  her  dancing  career  her  locomotion 
had  been  accomplished  entirely  by  the  use  of  the 
simpler  basic  forms  of  gymnastic  dance  steps.  She 
had  jete-d  and  coupe-d  and  saute-d  and  turne-d  in 
and  out  of  bed,,  on  L  train  platforms,  at  school, 
on  the  street. 

Lottie,  regarding  her  niece  now,  said,  "Looks 
easy,  so  I  suppose  it  isn't.  Let's  see."  She  lifted 
her  skirt  tentatively.  "Look  out!" 

"No,  no!  Don't  touch  your  skirts.  Arms  free. 
Out.  Like  this.  Hands  are  important  in  dancing. 


130  THE  GIRLS 

As  important  as  feet.  Now !  Tour  jete !  Higher ! 
That's  it.  Tou " 

^'Lot-tie!"  Mrs.  Payson's  voice  at  the  foot  of 
the  staircase. 

"Oh,  my  goodness !"  All  the  light,  the  fun,  the 
eagerness  that  had  radiated  Lottie's  face  vanished 
:now.  She  snatched  a  handkerchief  from  the  dresser 
;and  made  for  the  stairs,  snapping  a  fastener  at 
Iher  waist  as  she  went.  "Call  Aunt  Charlotte  for 
dinner/'  she  flung  over  her  shoulder  at  Charley. 

"All  right.  Can  I  have  a  drop  of  your  perfume 
on  my  hank?"  (Not  quite  so  grown-up,  after  all.) 

As  she  flew  past  the  living  room  on  her  way 
to  the  pantry  Lottie  heard  her  mother's  decided 
tones  a  shade  more  decisive  than  usual  as  she  ad 
ministered  advice  to  her  patient  son-in-law. 

'Tut  in  a  side-line  then,  until  business  picks  up. 
Importing  won't  improve  until  this  war  is  over, 
that's  sure.  And  when  will  it  be  over?  Maybe 
years  and  years " 

Henry  Kemp's  amused,,  tolerant  voice.  "What 
would  you  suggest,  Mother  Payson?  Collar  but 
tons — shoe  strings — suspenders.  They're  always 
needed/' 

"You  may  think  you're  very  funny,  but  let  me 
tell  you,  young  man,  if  I  were  in  your  shoes  to 
day  I'd " 

The  pantry  door  swung  after  Lottie.     As  she 


THE  GIRLS  131 

ranged  oil,  vinegar,  salt,,  pepper,  paprika  on  the 
shelf  before  her  and  pressed  the  pungent  cheese 
against  the  bottom  and  sides  of  the  shallow  bowl 
with  her  fork,  her  face  had  the  bound  look  that 
it  had  worn  earlier  in  the  day  at  Celia's.  She 
blended  and  beat  the  dressing  into  a  smooth  creamy 
consistency. 

They  were  all  at  table  when  Great-aunt  Char 
lotte  finally  came  down.  She  entered  with  a  sur 
prisingly  quick  light  step.  To-night  she  looked 
younger  than  her  sister  in  spite  of  ten  years'  senior 
ity.  Great-aunt  Charlotte  was  undeniably  dressy — 
a  late  phase.  At  the  age  of  seventy  she  had  an 
nounced  her  intention  of  getting  no  more  new 
dresses.  She  had,  she  said,  a  closet  full  of  black 
silks  and  more  serviceable  cloth  dresses  collected 
during  the  last  ten  or  more  years.  "We  Thrifts," 
she  said,  "aren't  long  livers.  I'll  make  what  I've 
got  do." 

The  black  silks  and  mohairs  had  stood  the  years 
bravely,  but  on  Aunt  Charlotte's  seventy-fifth  birth 
day  even  the  mohairs,  most  durable  of  fabrics,  be 
gan  to  protest.  The  dull  silks  became  shiny;  the 
shiny  mohairs  grew  dull.  Cracks  and  splits  showed 
in  the  hems  and  seams  and  folds  of  the  taffetas. 
Great-aunt  Charlotte  at  three-score  ten  and  five 
had  looked  them  over,  sniffed,  and  had  cast  them 
off  as  an  embryo  butterfly  casts  off  its  chrysalis.  She 


132  THE  GIRLS 

took  a  new  lease  on  life,  ordered  a  complete  set  of 
dresses  that  included  a  figured  foulard,  sent  her 
ancient  and  massive  pieces  of  family  jewelry  to  be 
cleaned,  and  went  shopping  with  Lottie  for  a  hat 
instead  of  the  bonnet  to  which  she  had  so  long 
clung. 

She  looked  quite  the  grande  dame  as  she  entered 
the  dining  room  now,  in  one  of  the  more  friv 
olous  black  silks,  her  white  hair  crimped,,  a  great 
old-fashioned  cabachon  gold  and  diamond  brooch 
fastening  the  lace  at  her  breast,  a  band  of  black 
velvet  ribbon  about  her  neck,  her  eyes  brightly 
interested  beneath  the  strongly  marked  black  brows. 
Belle  came  over  and  dutifully  kissed  one  withered 
old  cheek.  She  and  Aunt  Charlotte  had  never  been 
close.  Henry  patted  her  shoulder  as  he  pulled  out 
her  chair.  Charley  gave  her  a  quick  hug  to  which 
Great-aunt  Charlotte  said,  "Ouch!" — but  smiled 
"Dear  me,  I  haven't  kept  you  waiting!" 

"You  know  you  have,,"  retorted  Mrs.  Carrie  Pay- 
son;  and  dipped  her  spoon  in  the  plate  of  steaming 
golden  fragrant  soup  before  her.  Whereupon 
Great-aunt  Charlotte  winked  at  Henry  Kemp. 

The  Friday  night  dinner  was  always  a  good 
meal,  though  what  is  known  as  "plain."  Soup, 
roast,  a  vegetable,  salad,  dessert. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson,  "and  how've 


THE  GIRLS  133 

you  all  been?  I  suppose  I'd  never  see  you  if  it 
weren't  for  Friday  nights/' 

Charley  looked  up  quickly.  "Oh,  Gran,  I'm  sorry 
but  I  shan't  be  able  to  come  to  dinner  any  more 
on  Fridays." 

" Why  not?" 

"My  dancing  class." 

Mrs.  Payson  laid  down  her  spoon  and  sat  back, 
terribly  composed.  "Dancing  class!  You  can 
change  your  dancing  class  to  some  other  night,  I 
suppose?  You  know  very  well  this  is  the  only 
night  possible  for  the  family.  Hulda's  out  Thurs 
days;  your  father  and  mother  play  bridge  on 
Wednesdays;  Lottie " 

"Yes,  I  know.     But  there's  no  other  night.'1' 

"You  must  dance,,  I  suppose?"  This  Charley  took 
to  be  a  purely  rhetorical  question.  As  well  say  to 
her,  "You  must  breathe,  I  suppose?"  Mrs.  Payson 
turned  to  her  daughter  Belle.  "This  is  with  your 
permission?" 

Belle  nibbled  celery  tranquilly.  "We  talked  it 
over.  But  Charley  makes  her  own  decisions  in 
matters  like  this  you  know,  mother." 

As  with  one  accord  Great-aunt  Charlotte  and 
Aunt  Lottie  turned  and  regarded  Charley.  A  cer 
tain  awe  was  in  their  faces,  unknowrn  to  them. 

"But  why  exactly  Friday  night?"  persisted  Mrs. 


134  THE  GIRLS 

Payson.  "Lottie,  ring."  Lottie  rang,  obediently. 
Hulda  entered. 

"That  was  mighty  good  soup,  mother/'  said 
Henry  Kemp. 

Mrs.  Payson  refused  to  be  mollified.  Ignored 
the  compliment.  "Why  exactly  Friday  night,  if 
you  please?" 

Charley  wiggled  a  little  with  pleasure.  "I  hoped 
you'd  ask  me  that.  I'm  dying  to  talk  about  it. 
Oo!  Roast  chickens!  All  brown  and  crackly! 
Well,  you  see,,  my  actual  class-work  in  merchandis 
ing  and  business  efficiency  will  be  about  finished 
at  the  end  of  the  month.  After  that,  the  univer 
sity  places  you,  you  know." 

"Places  you!" 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  had  always  had  an  uneasy 
feeling  about  her  granddaughter's  choice  of  a  ca 
reer.  That  she  would  have  a  career  Charley  never 
for  a  moment  allowed  them  to  doubt.  She  never 
called  it  a  career.  She  spoke  of  it  as  "a  job."  In 
range  her  choice  swung  from  professional  dancing 
(  for  which  she  was  technically  and  temperamentally 
fitted)  to  literature  (for  the  creating  of  which  she 
had  no  talent).  Between  these  widely  divergent 
points  she  paused  briefly  to  consider  the  fascina 
tions  of  professions  such  as  licensed  aviatrix  (she 
had  never  flown)  ;  private  secretary  to  a  millionaire 
magnate  (again  the  influence  of  the  matinee) ; 


THE  GIRLS  135 

woman  tennis  champion  (she  held  her  own  in  a  game 
against  the  average  male  player  but  stuck  her 
tongue  between  her  teeth  when  she  served)  ;  and 
Influence  for  Good  or  Evil  (by  which  she  meant 
vaguely  something  in  the  Madame  de  Stael  and 
general  salon  line).  She  had  never  expressed  a 
desire  to  be  a  nurse. 

In  the  middle  of  her  University  of  Chicago  career 
this  young  paradox  made  up  of  steel  and  velvet, 
of  ruthlessness  and  charm,  had  announced,,  to  the 
surprise  of  her  family  and  friends,  her  intention 
of  going  in  for  the  University's  newest  course — 
that  in  which  young  women  were  trained  to  occupy 
executive  positions  in  retail  mercantile  establish 
ments.  Quite  suddenly  western  co-educational  uni 
versities  and  eastern  colleges  for  women — Vassar, 
Smith,  Wellesley,  Bryn  Mawr — were  training  girl 
students  for  business  executive  positions.  Salaries 
of  ten — twenty — twenty-five  thousand  a  year  were 
predicted,,  together  with  revolutionary  changes  in 
the  conduct  of  such  business.  Until  now  such  posi 
tions  had  been  occupied,  for  the  most  part,  by  women 
who  had  worked  their  way  up  painfully,  hand  over 
hand,  from  a  cash  or  stock-girl's  job  through  a 
clerkship  to  department  head;  thence,  perhaps,  to 
the  position  of  buyer  and,  later,  office  executive.  On 
the  way  they  acquired  much  knowledge  of  human 
nature  and  business  finesse,  but  it  was  a  matter  of 


136  THE  GIRLS 

many  years.  These  were,  usually,  shrewd,  hard* 
working,  successful  women;  but  limited  and  often 
devoid  of  education  other  than  that  gained  by  prac 
tical  experience.  This  new  course  would  introduce 
into  business  the  trained  young  woman  of  college 
education.  Business  was  to  be  a  profession,  not 
a  rough-and-tumble  game. 

Charley's  grandmother  looked  on  this  choice  of 
career  with  mingled  gratification  and  disapproval. 
Plainly  it  was  the  Isaac  Thrift  in  Charley  assert 
ing  itself.  But  a  Thrift — a  woman  Thrift — in  a 
shop ! — even  though  ultimately  occupying  a  mahog 
any  office,,  directing  large  affairs,  and  controlling 
battalions  of  push  buttons  and  secretaries.  Was  it 
ladylike?  Was  it  quite  nice?  What  would  the 
South  Side  say? 

So,  then — "Places  you?"  Mrs.  Payson  had 
echoed  uneasily,  at  dinner. 

"For  beginning  practical  experience.  We  learn 
the  business  from  the  ground  up  as  an  engineer 
does,  or  an  interne.  I've  just  heard  to-day  they've 
placed  me  at  Shield's,,  in  the  blouses.  I'm  to  start 
Monday." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Henry  Kemp,  at 
once  amused  and  pleased.  He  could  not  resist 
treating  Charley  and  her  job  as  a  rare  joke.  "Sales 
woman,  I  suppose,  to  begin  with.  Clerk,  h'm? 
Say,  Charley,  I'm.  coming  in  and  ask  about " 


THE  GIRLS  137 

"Clerk?"  repeated  Mrs.  Payson,  almost  feebly 
for  her.  She  saw  herself  sliding  around  corners 
and  fleeing  up  aisles  to  avoid  Shield's  blouse  section 
so  that  her  grandchild  need  not  approach  her  with 
a  softly  insinuating  "Is  there  something,  Madam  ?" 

"Saleswoman!  I  should  say  not!"  Charley 
grinned  at  their  ignorance.  "No — no  gravy, 
thanks — "  to  Hulda  at  her  elbow.  Charley  ate  like 
an  athlete  in  training,  avoiding  gravies,  pastries, 
sweets.  Her  skin  was  a  rose-petal.  "I'm  to  start 
in  Monday  as  stock  girl — if  I'm  in  luck." 

Mrs.  Payson  pushed  her  plate  aside  sharply  as 
Henry  Kemp  threw  back  his  head  and  roared. 
"Belle!  Henry,  stop  that  laughing!  It's  no  laugh 
ing  matter.  No  grandchild  of  mine  is  going  to  be 
allowed  to  run  up  and  down  Shield's  blouse  depart 
ment  as  a  stock  girl.  The  idea!  Stock " 

"Now,,  now  Mother  Payson,"  interrupted  Henry, 
soothingly,  as  he  supposed,  "you  didn't  expect  them 
to  start  Charley  in  as  foreign  buyer  did  you?" 

Belle  raised  her  eyebrows  together  with  her  voice. 
"The  thing  Charley's  doing  is  considered  very  smart 
nowadays,  mother.  That  Emery  girl  who  has  just 
finished  at  Vassar  is  in  the  veilings  at  Parson's, 
and  if  ever  there  was  a  patrician-looking  girl — 
Henry  dear,  please  don't  take  another  helping  of 
potatoes.  You  told  me  to  stop  you  if  you  tried. 


138  THE  GIRLS 

Well,  then,,  have  some  more  chicken.  That  won't 
hurt  your  waist-line/' 

"Why  can't  girls  stay  home?"  Mrs.  Payson  de 
manded.  "It's  all  very  well  if  you  have  to  go  out 
into  the  world,  as  I  did.  I  was  unfortunate  and 
I  had  the  strength  to  meet  my  trial.  But  when 
there's  no  rhyme  nor  reason  for  it,  I  do  declare! 
Surely  there's  enough  for  you  at  home.  Look  at 
Lottie!  What  would  I  do  without  her!" 

Lottie  smiled  up  at  her  mother  then.  It  was 
not  often  that  Mrs.  Payson  unbent  in  her  public 
praise. 

Great-aunt  Charlotte,  taking  no  part  in  the  dis 
cussion,  had  eaten  every  morsel  on  her  plate  down 
to  the  last  crumb  of  sage  dressing.  Now  she 
looked  up,  blinking  brightly  at  Charley.  She  put 
her  question. 

"Suppose,,  after  you've  tried  it,  with  your  edu 
cation,  and  the  time,  and  money  you've  spent  on 
it,  and  all,  you  find  you  don't  like  it,  Charley — 
then  what?  H'm?  What  then?" 

"If  I'm  quite  sure  I  don't  like  it  I'll  stop  it  and 
do  something  else,"  replied  Charley. 

Great-aunt  Charlotte  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  It  was  as  though  she 
found  a  vicarious  relaxation  and  a  sense  of  ease 
in  Charley's  freedom.  She  beamed  upon  the  table. 
"It's  a  great  age,,"  she  announced,  "this  century, 


THE  GIRLS  139 

If  I'd  died  at  seventy,  as  I  planned,  I'd  be  madder'n 
a  hornet  now  to  think  of  all  I'd  missed."  She  gig 
gled  a  little  falsetto  note.  "I've  a  good  mind  to 
step  out  and  get  a  job  myself." 

"Don't  be  childish  Charlotte !"— sister  Carrie,  of 
course. 

Charley  leaped  to  her  defense.  "I'd  get  one  this 
minute  if  I  were  you,  Aunt  Charlotte,  yes  I  would. 
If  you  feel  like  it.  Look  at  mother!  Always  hav 
ing  massages  and  taking  gentle  walks  in  the  park, 
and  going  to  concerts,,  when  there's  the  whole  world 
to  wallop." 

Belle  was  not  above  a  certain  humourous  argu 
ment.  "I  consider  that  I've  walloped  my  world, 
Miss  Kemp.  I've  married;  I  manage  a  household; 
I've  produced  a — a  family." 

"Gussie  runs  your  household,  and  you  know  it. 
Being  married  to  father  isn't  a  career — it's  a  recre 
ation.  And  as  for  having  produced  a  family:  one 
child  isn't  a  family;  it's  a  crime.  I'm  going  to 
marry  at  twenty,  have  five  children  one  right  after 
the  other " 

The  inevitable  "Charley !"  from  Mrs.  Carrie  Pay- 
son. 

" — and  handle  my  job  besides.     See  if  I  don't." 

"Why  exactly  five?"  inquired  Henry  Kemp. 

"Well,  four  is  such  a  silly  number;  too  tidy. 
And  six  is  too  many.  That's  half  a  dozen.  Five's 


140  THE  GIRLS 

just  nice.  I  like  odd  numbers.  Three  would  be 
too  risky  in  case  anything  should  happen  to  one 
of  them,  and  seven " 

"Oh,  my  God!"  from  Henry  Kemp  before  he 
went  off  into  roars  again. 

"I  never  heard  such  talk!"  Mrs.  Pay  son  almost 
shouted.  "When  I  was  your  age  I'd  have  been 
sent  from  the  room  for  even  listening  to  such  con 
versation,  much  less " 

"That's  where  they  were  wrong,"  Charley  went 
on ;  and  she  was  so  much  in  earnest  that  one  could 
not  call  her  pert.  "Look  at  Lottie!  The  maternal 
type  absolutely,  or  I  don't  know  my  philosophy  and 
biology.  That's  what  makes  her  so  corking  in  the 
Girls'  Court  work  that  she  never  has  time  to  do — " 
she  stopped  at  a  sudden  recollection.  "Oh,  Lotta, 
Gussie's  having  trouble  with  that  sister  of  hers 
again." 

Gussie  was  the  Kemp's  cook,  and  a  pearl.  Even 
Mrs.  Payson  was  hard  put  to  it  to  find  a  flaw  in 
her  conduct  of  the  household.  But  she  interposed 
hastily  here  with  her  weekly  question,  Hulda  being 
safely  out  of  the  room. 

"Is  your  Gussie  out  to-night,  Belle?" 

"She  was  still  there  when  we  left — poor  child." 

"And  why  'poor  child!'  You  treat  her  like  a 
princess.  No  washing,  and  a  woman  to  clean.  I 
don't  see  what  she  does  all  day  long.  And  why 


THE  GIRLS  141 

can't  she  go  home  for  her  dinner  when  you're  out? 
You're  always  getting  her  extra  pork  chops  and 
things." 

Henry  Kemp  wagged  his  head.  "She's  the  best 
little  cook  we  ever  had,  Gussie  is.  Neat  and  pleas 
ant.  Has  my  breakfast  on  the  table,  hot,  the  min 
ute  I  sit  down.  Coffee's  always  hot.  Bacon's  al 
ways  crisp  without  being  burned.  Now  most 
girls " 

"Henry,  she  was  crying  in  her  room  when  I  left 
the  house  to-night.  Charley  told  me."  A  little 
worried  frown  marred  the  usual  serenity  of  Mrs. 
Kemp's  forehead. 

"Crying,  was  she?" 

"That  sister  of  hers  again,,"  explained  Charley. 
"And  Gussie's  got  so  much  pride.  Jennie — that's 
the  sister — ran  away  from  home.  Took  some 
money,  I  think.  It's  a  terrible  family.  Her  case 
comes  up  in  Judge  Barton's  court  to-morrow." 

Lottie  nodded  understandingly.  She  and  Gussie 
had  had  many  unburdening  talks  in  the  Kemp 
kitchen.  "I  think  Judge  Barton  could  straighten 
things  out  for  Gussie.  That  sister,  anyway." 

Belle  grasped  at  that  eagerly.  "Oh,  Lottie,  if 
she  could.  Gussie's  mind  isn't  on  her  work.  And 
I've  got  that  luncheon  next  Tuesday." 

Lottie  ranged  it  all  swiftly.  "I'll  tell  you  what. 
I'll  come  over  to  your  house  to-morrow  morning, 


142  THE  GIRLS 

early,  and  talk  with  Gussie.  To-morrow's  the  last 
day  of  the  week  and  the  Girls'  Court  doesn't  con 
vene  again  until  Tuesday.  Perhaps  if  I  speak  for 
this  Jennie  when  her  case  comes  up  to-mor 


"Oh,  dear,  Tuesday  wouldn't  do!"  from  Belle. 

"Yes,  I  know.  So  I'll  see  Gussie  to-morrow,  and 
then  go  right  down  to  Judge  Barton's  before  the 
session  opens.  Gussie  can  come  with  me,  if  you 
want  her  to,  or " 

Mrs.  Payson's  voice,  hard,  high,,  interrupted. 
"Not  to-morrow,  Lottie.  It's  my  day  for  collect 
ing  the  rents.  You  know  that  perfectly  well  because 
I  spoke  of  it  this  morning.  And  all  my  Sunday 
marketing  to  do,  too.  It's  Saturday." 

Lottie  fingered  her  spoon  nervously.  An  added 
colour  crept  into  her  cheeks.  "I'll  be  back  by  eleven- 
thirty — twelve  at  the  latest.  Judge  Barton  will  see 
me  first,  I  know.  We'll  drive  over  to  collect  the 
rents  as  soon  as  I  get  back  and  then  market  on 
the  way  home." 

"After  everything's  picked  over  on  Saturday 
afternoon!" 

Lottie  looked  down  at  her  plate.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  in  her  lap,  beneath  the  tablecloth,  but  there 
was  a  tell-tale  tenseness  about  her  arms,  a  rigidity 
about  her  whole  body.  "I  thought  just  this  once, 
mother,  you  wouldn't  mind.  Gussie " 


THE  GIRLS  143 

"Are  the  affairs  of  Belle's  kitchen  maid  more 
important  than  your  own  mother's !  Are  they  ?" 

Lottie  looked  up,,  slowly.  It  was  as  though  some 
force  impelled  her.  Her  eyes  met  Charley's,  intent 
on  her.  Her  glance  went  from  them  to  Aunt  Char 
lotte — Aunt  Charlotte,  a  spare  little  figure,  erect 
in  her  chair — and  Aunt  Charlotte's  eyes  were  on  her 
too,  intent.  Those  two  pairs  of  eyes  seemed  to  will 
her  to  utter  that  which  she  now  found  herself 
saying  to  her  own  horror : 

"Why,  yes,  mother,  I  think  they  are  in  this  case. 
Yes." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  family  rose  from  the  table  and  moved  into 
the  living  room,  a  little  constraint  upon  them. 
Mrs.  Payson  stayed  behind  to  give  directions  to 
Hulda.  Hulda,  who  dined  in  a  heap  off  the  end 
of  the  kitchen  table,  was  rarely  allowed  to  consume 
her  meal  in  peace.  Between  Hulda  and  Mrs.  Pay- 
son  there  was  waged  the  unending  battle  of  the 
coffee-pot.  After  breakfast,  luncheon,  dinner  the 
mistress  of  the  house  would  go  into  the  kitchen, 
take  the  coffee-pot  off  the  gas  stove  and  peer  into 
its  dark  depths. 

"My  goodness,,  Hulda,  you've  made  enough  cof 
fee  for  a  regiment!  That's  wasteful.  It'll  only 
have  to  be  thrown  away." 

"Ay  drink  him." 

"You  can't  drink  all  this,  girl.  You'll  be  sick. 
You  drink  altogether  too  much  coffee.  Coffee  makes 
you  nervous,  don't  you  know  that?  Yellow!" 

Hulda  munched  a  piece  of  bread  and  took  an 
other  long  gulp  of  her  beloved  beverage,  her  capa 
ble  red  hand  wrapped  fondly  about  the  steaming 
cup.  "Naw  Mrs.  Pay-son.  My  grandfather  he  was 
drink  twenty  cup  a  day  in  old  country." 

144 


THE  GIRLS  145 

"Yes,  but  what  happened  to  him?  He'd  be  liv 
ing  to-day " 

"He  ban  living  to-day.  Ninety  years  and  red 
cheeks  like  apples." 

In  the  living  room  Lottie  took  up  her  knitting 
again.  The  front  parlor  was  unlighted  but  Charley 
went  in  and  sat  down  at  the  old  piano.  She  did 
not  play  particularly  well  and  she  had  no  voice. 
Lottie,  knitting  as  she  went,  walked  into  the  dim 
front  room  and  sat  down  near  Charley  at  the  piano. 
Charley  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"That  you,,  Lotta?"     She  went  on  playing. 

"Yes,  dear." 

A  little  silence.    "Now  you  stick  to  it !" 

"I  will." 

In  the  living  room  Henry  Kemp  leaned  over  and 
kissed  his  wife.  Straightening,  he  took  a  cigar  out 
of  his  vest  pocket  and  eyed  it  lovingly.  He  pressed 
its  resilient  oily  black  sides  with  a  tender  thumb 
and  finger.  He  lighted  it,  took  a  deep  pull  at  it, 
exhaled  with  a  long-drawn  pf-f-f,  and  closed  his 
eyes  for  a  moment,,  a  little  sigh  of  content  breath 
ing  from  him.  He  glanced,  then,  at  his  watch. 
Only  seven-fifty.  Good  Lord!  He  strolled  over  to 
Great-aunt  Charlotte  who  was  seated  near  the  front 
parlour  doorway  and  the  music.  Her  head  was 
cocked.  He  patted  her  black-silk  shoulder,  genially. 

"That  cigar  smells  good,  Henry." 


146  THE  GIRLS 

''Good  cigar,  Aunt  Charlotte/'  He  rolled  it  be 
tween  his  lips. 

Aunt  Charlotte's  fingers  tapped  the  arm  of  her 
chair.  She  waggled  her  head  a  little  in  time  with 
the  music.  "It's  nice  to  have  something  that  smells 
like  a  man  in  the  house." 

"You  vamp!"  shouted  Henry  Kemp.  He  came 
over  to  Belle  again  who  was  seated  in  the  most 
gracious  chair  the  room  boasted,,  doing  nothing 
with  a  really  charming  effect.  "Say,  listen  Belle, 
we  don't  have  to  stay  so  very  late  this  evening,  do 
we?  I'm  all  tired  out.  I  worked  like  a  horse  to 
day  downtown." 

Before  Belle  could  answer  Charley  called  in  from 
the  other  room,  "Oh,  mother,,  I'm  going  to  be  called 
for,  you  know." 

Belle  raised  her  voice  slightly.    "The  poet?" 

"Yes." 

"In  the  flivver?"     Her  father's  question. 

"Yes.  Now  roar,  Dad,  you  silly  old  thing.  Imag 
ine  a  girl  like  me  being  cursed  with  a  father  who 
thinks  poets  and  flivvers  are  funny.  If  you'd  ever 
tried  to  manage  either  of  them  you'd  know  there's 
nothing  comic  about  them." 

"There  is  too,,"  contended  Henry  Kemp.  "Either 
one  of  'em's  funny;  and  the  combination's  killing. 
The  modern — uh — what's  this  horse  the  poets  are 
supposed  to  ride?" 


THE  GIRLS  147 

His  wife  supplied  the  classicism,  "Pegasus." 

"Pegasus!"  he  called  in  to  Charley. 

"You  stick  to  your  importing,  Henry,"  retorted 
his  gay  young  daughter,  "and  leave  the  book  larnin' 
to  mother  and  me." 

Henry  Kemp,  suddenly  serious,,  strolled  over  to 
his  wife  again.  He  lowered  his  voice.  "About 
nine  o'clock,  anyway,  can't  we?  Eh,  Belle?" 

"Not  before  nine-thirty.  You  know  how 
mama " 

Henry  sighed,  resignedly.  He  stood  a  moment, 
balancing  from  heel  to  toe.  "Lot's  a  peach,  that's 
what  she  is,"  he  confided  irrelevantly  to  his  wife. 
He  puffed  a  moment  in  silence,  his  eyes  squinting 
up  through  the  smoke.  "And  it's  a  damn  shame, 
that's  what.  Damn  shame." 

He  picked  up  the  discarded  newspaper  and  seated 
himself  in  the  buffalo  chair.  The  buffalo  chair  was 
a  hideous  monstrosity  whose  arms,  back,  and  sides 
were  made  of  buffalo  horns  ingeniously  put  to 
gether.  Fortunately,  their  tips  curved  away  from 
the  sitter.  The  chair  had  been  presented  to  old 
Isaac  Thrift  by  some  lodge  or  real  estate  board  or 
society.  It  was  known  to  the  family  as  Ole  Bull. 
The  women  never  sat  in  it  and  always  warned  femi 
nine  callers  away  from  it.  Its  horns  had  a  disas 
trous  way  with  flounces,  ruffles,  plackets,  frills.  It 
was  one  of  those  household  encumbrances  which 


148  THE  GIRLS 

common  sense  tells  you  to  cast  off  at  every  house- 
cleaning  and  sentiment  bids  you  retain.  Thus  far 
sentiment  had  triumphed  on  Prairie  Avenue.  Once 
you  resigned  yourself  to  him  Ole  Bull  was  unex 
pectedly  comfortable.  Here  Henry  Kemp  sat  read 
ing,  smoking,  glancing  up  over  the  top  of  his  paper 
at  the  women  folk  of  his  family — at  his  wife,  his 
daughter.,  his  mother-in-law,  thoughtfully  through 
the  soothing  haze  of  his  cigar.  He  pondered  on 
many  things  during  these  family  Friday  evenings, 
did  Henry  Kemp.  And  said  little. 

The  conversation  was  the  intimate,  frank,  often 
brutal  talk  common  to  families  whose  members  see 
each  other  too  often  and  know  one  another  too  well. 
Belle  to  Lottie,  for  example: 

"Oh,  why  don't  you  get  something  a  little  dif 
ferent!  You've  been  wearing  blue  for  ten  years." 

"Yes,  but  it's  so  practical;  and  it  always  looks 
well." 

"Cut  loose  and  be  impractical  for  a  change. 
They're  going  to  wear  a  lot  of  that  fawn  colour 
this  spring — sand,  I  think  they  call  it  ...  How 
did  Mrs.  Hines  get  along  with  that  old  taffeta  she 
made  over  for  you?" 

"I  don't  know;  it  kind  of  draws  across  the  front, 
and  the  sleeves — I  have  to  remember  to  keep  my 
arms  down.  I  wish  you'd  look  at  it." 

"You'd  have  to  put  it  on.     How  can  I  tell?" 


THE  GIRLS  149 

"Too  much  trouble/' 

"Well,  then,  go  on  looking  frumpy.  These  home 
dressmakers!" 

Lottie  did  not  look  frumpy,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
No  one  with  a  figure  so  vigorous  and  erect,  a  back 
so  straight,  a  head  so  well  set  on  its  fine  column 
of  a  throat,  a  habit  of  such  fastidious  cleanliness 
of  person,  could  be  frumpy.  But  she  resorted  to 
few  feminine  wiles  of  clothing,  as  of  speech  or 
manner.  Lottie's  laces,  and  silks  and  fine  white 
garments,  like  her  dear  secret  thoughts  and  fan 
cies,  were  worn  hidden,  by  the  world  unsuspected. 
All  the  dearer  to  Lottie  for  that. 

To-night  Belle  sat  dangling  her  slipper  at  the 
end  of  her  toe,  her  knees  crossed.  She  had  a  small 
slim  foot  and  a  trick  of  shooting  her  pump  loose 
at  the  heel  so  that  it  hung  half  on  half  off  as  she 
waggled  her  foot  in  its  fine  silk  stocking.  Henry 
Kemp  had  found  it  an  entrancing  trick  when  first 
they  were  married.  He  found  it  less  fascinating 
now,  after  twenty  years.  Sometimes  the  slipper 
dropped — accidentally.  "Henry  dear,  my  slipper." 
Well,  even  the  Prince  must  have  remonstrated  with 
Cinderella  if  she  made  a  practice  of  the  slipper- 
dropping  business  after  their  marriage.  Twenty 
years  after. 

Belle,  dangling  the  slipper,  called  in  now  to  Lot 
tie:  "Nice  party,  Lot?" 


ISO  THE  GIRLS 

"Oh,  nice  enough." 

"Who  was  there?" 

"The  girls.    You  know." 

"Is  her  flat  pretty?     What  did  she  serve?" 

"Chicken  salad  with  aspic- — hot  biscuits — olives 
—a  cake " 

"Really!" 

"Oh,  yes.     A  party." 

"Is  she  happy  with  her  Orville — now  that  she's 
waited  ten  years  for  him?" 

"Yes — at  least,  she  was  until  this  afternoon." 

"Until! — Oh,  come  in  here,  Lottie.  I  can't 
shout  at  you  like " 

Lottie,  knitting  as  she  walked,  came  back  into 
the  living  room.  Charley  followed  her  after  a  mo 
ment;  came  over  to  her  father,  perched  herself  on 
a  slippery  arm  of  Ole  Bull  and  leaned  back,  her 
shoulder  against  his. 

Lottie  stood,  still  knitting.  She  smiled  a  little. 
"Beck  Schaefer  was  on  one  of  her  reckless  ram 
pages.  She  teased  Celia  until  Celia  cried." 

"About  what?  Teased  her  about  what?  Pretty 
kind  of  guest,  I  must  say." 

"Oh,  marriage.  Marriage  and  happiness  and — 
she  said  every  unmarried  woman  was  a  failure." 

"That  shouldn't  have  bothered  Celia.  She's 
married,  safe  enough.  She  certainly  had  Beck 
there." 


THE  GIRLS  151 

"Beck  intimated  that  Orville  wasn't  worth  wait 
ing  ten  years  for." 

"Most  men  aren't,"  spoke  up  great-aunt  Char 
lotte  from  her  corner,  "and  their  wives  don't  know 
it  until  after  they've  been  married  ten  years;  and 
then  it's  too  late.  Celia  had  plenty  of  time  to  find 
it  out  first  and  she  married  him  anyway.  That's 
better.  She'll  be  happy  with  him." 

"Charlotte  Thrift!"  called  Charley,  through  the 
laughter.  "You  couldn't  be  so  wise  just  living  to 
be  seventy-four.  Oh,  you  hoop-skirted  gals  weren't 
so  prunes-and-prismy.  You've  had  a  past.  I'm 
sure  of  it." 

"How  d'you  suppose  I  could  have  faced  the  fu 
ture  all  these  years  if  I  hadn't  had!"  retorted  Aunt 
Charlotte. 

"That  Schaefer  girl  had  better  go  slow."  Henry 
Kemp  blew  a  whole  flock  of  smoke-rings  for  Char 
ley's  edification  at  which  Charley,  unedified,  an 
nounced  that  she  could  blow  better  rings  than  any 
of  these  in  size,  number,  and  velocity  with  a  de 
spised  gold-tipped  perfumed  cigarette  and  cold- 
sore  on  the  upper  lip.  "Some  day,"  he  predicted, 
"some  day  she'll  run  away  with  a  bell-hop.  Just 
the  type." 

"Who's  run  away  with  a  bell-hop?"  Mrs.  Pay- 
son  chose  this  unfortunate  moment  to  enter  the 
living  room  after  her  kitchen  conference. 


152  THE  GIRLS 

"Beck  Schaefer,"  said  Charley,  mischievously. 

You  should  have  seen,  then,  the  quick  glance  of 
terror  that  Mrs.  Payson  darted  at  Lottie.  You 
might  almost  have  thought  that  Lottie  had  been 
the  one  who  had  succumbed  to  the  lure  of  youth 
in  blue  suit  and  brass  buttons. 

"Beck!  She  hasn't!  She  didn't!  Beck  Schae 
fer!" 

"No  mama,  she  hasn't.  Henry  just  thinks  she 
will — in  time." 

Mrs.  Payson  turned  on  the  overhead  electric 
lights  (they  had  been  sitting  in  the  soothing  twi 
light  of  the  lamps),  signified  that  Charley  was  to 
hand  her  the  evening  paper  that  lay  at  the  side 
of  Henry's  chair,,  and  seated  herself  in  an  ancient 
rocker — the  only  rocker  the  house  contained.  It 
squeaked.  She  rocked.  Glaring  lights,  rustling 
paper,  squeaking  chair.  The  comfort  of  the  room, 
of  the  group,  was  dispelled. 

"I'd  like  to  know  why !"  demanded  Mrs.  Payson, 
turning  to  the  stock  market  page.  "A  good  family. 
Money.  And  Beck  Schaefer's  a  fine  looking  girl." 

One  thought  flashed  through  the  minds  of  all  of 
them.  Jhe  others  looked  at  Lottie  and  left  the 
thought  unspoken.  Lottie  herself  put  it  into  words 
then.  Bluntly:  "She  isn't  a  girl,  mother.  She's 
thirty-five." 

"Thirty-five's  just  a  nice  age."    The  paper  crac- 


THE  GIRLS  153 

kled  as  she  passed  to  the  real  estate  transfers.  "If 
this  keeps  on  I'd  like  to  know  what  they're  going 
to  do  about  building.  Material's  so  high  now  it's 
prohibitive."  More  rustling  of  paper  and  squeaking 
of  chair.  "Beck  Schaefer's  got  her  mother  to  look 
out  for  her." 

"That's  why,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte,  suddenly. 
Lottie  looked  at  her,  knitting  needles  poised  a  mo 
ment. 

"Why  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Payson.  Then,  as  her 
sister  Charlotte  did  not  answer,  "You  don't  even 
know  what  we're  talking  about,  Charlotte.  Sit 
there  in  the  corner  half  asleep." 

"It's  you  who're  asleep,"  snapped  great-aunt 
Charlotte  tartly.  "With  your  eyes  wide  open." 

When  the  doorbell  rang  then,  opportunely,  they 
all  sighed  a  little,  whether  in  relief  or  disappoint 
ment. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Lottie.  So  it  was  she  who  opened 
the  door  to  admit  Ben  Gartz. 

You  heard  him  as  Lottie  opened  the  door.  "Hel 
lo!  Well,  Lottie!  How's  every  little  thing  with 
you?  .  .  .  That's  good!  You  cer'nly  look  it." 

Ben  Gartz  came  into  the  living  room,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  smiling  genially.  A  genial  man,  Ben, 
and  yet  you  did  not  warm  yourself  at  his  geniality. 
A  little  too  anxious,  he  was.  Not  quite  spruce. 
Looking  his  forty-nine  years.  A  pale  and  mack- 


154  THE  GIRLS 

erel  eye  in  a  rubicund  countenance,  had  Ben  Gartz. 
Combed  his  thinning  hair  in  careful  wisps  acrossthe 
top  of  his  head  to  hide  the  spreading  bald  spot.  The 
kind  of  man  who  says,  "H'are  you,  sir!"  on  meet 
ing  you,  and  offers  you  a  cigar  at  once;  who  sits 
in  the  smokers  of  Pullmans;  who  speaks  of  chil 
dren  always  as  "Kiddies."  He  toed  in  a  little  as 
he  walked.  A  plumpish  man  and  yet  with  an  oddly 
shrunken  look  about  him,  somehow.  The  flame 
had  pretty  well  died  out  in  him.  He  and  his  kind 
fought  a  little  shy  of  what  they  called  "the  old 
girls."  But  he  was  undoubtedly  attracted  to  Lot 
tie.  Ben  Gartz  had  been  a  good  son  to  his  mother. 
She  had  regarded  every  unmarried  woman  as  her 
possible  rival.  She  always  had  said,  "Ben  ought 
to  get  married,  I'd  like  to  see  him  settled."  But 
it  was  her  one  horror.  The  South  Side,  after  her 
death,  said  as  one  voice,  "Well,  Ben,  you  certainly 
have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  You  were 
a  wonderful  son  to  her."  And  the  South  Side  was 
right. 

Once  Mrs.  Payson  said  of  him,  "He's  a  good 
boy." 

Aunt  Charlotte  had  cocked  an  eye.  "He's  unin 
teresting  enough  to  be  good.  But  I  don't  know.  He 
looks  to  me  as  if  he  was  just  waiting  for  a  chance 
to  be  bad."  She  had  caught  in  Ben  Gartz's  face 
a  certain  wistfulness — a  something  unfulfilled — 


THE  GIRLS  155 

that  her  worldly-wise  sister  had  mistaken  for  mild 
ness. 

Henry  Kemp  brightened  at  the  visitor's  en 
trance  as  well  he  might  in  this  roomful  of  women. 
"Well,  Ben,  glad  to  see  you.  Come  into  the  harem," 

Ben  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Payson,  with  Aunt 
Charlotte,  with  Belle,  with  Charley.  "My,  my  look 
at  this  kiddy!  Why,  she's  a  young  lady!  Better 
look  out,  Miss  Lottie;  you'll  be  letting  your  little 
niece  get  ahead  of  you."  Shook  hands  with  Henry 
Kemp.  Out  came  the  cigar. 

"No,  no!"  protested  Henry.  "You've  got  to 
smoke  one  of  mine."  They  exchanged  cigars,  eyed 
them,  tucked  them  in  vest  pockets  and  lighted  one 
of  their  own,  according  to  the  solemn  and  ridicu 
lous  ritual  of  men.  Ben  Gartz  settled  back  in  a 
chair  and  crossed  his  chubby  knees.  "This  is 
mighty  nice,  let  me  tell  you,  for  an  old  batch  liv 
ing  in  a  hotel  room.  The  family  circle,  like  this. 
Mighty  nice."  He  glanced  at  Lottie.  He  admired 
Lottie  with  an  admiration  that  had  in  it  something 
of  fear,  so  he  always  assumed  a  boisterous  bluff- 
ness  with  her.  Sometimes  he  felt,  vaguely,  that 
she  was  laughing  at  him.  But  she  wasn't.  She  was 
sorry  for  him.  He  was  to  her  as  obvious  as  a  child 
to  its  mother. 

"You  might  have  come  for  dinner,"  Lottie  said, 


156  THE  GIRLS 

kindly,  "if  I'd  known,  earlier.  The  folks  had  din 
ner  here." 

"Oh,  no!"  protested  Ben  as  though  the  invita 
tion  were  now  being  tendered.  "I  couldn't  think  of 
troubling  you.  Mighty  nice  of  you,  though,  to 
think  of  me.  Maybe  some  other  time " 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  said  nothing.  She  did  not 
issue  dinner  invitations  thus,  helter-skelter.  She 
did  not  look  displeased,  though. 

"Well,  how's  business?" 

Great-aunt  Charlotte  made  a  little  clucking  sound 
between  tongue  and  palate  and  prepared  to  drift 
from  the  room.  She  had  a  knack  of  drifting  out 
of  the  room — evaporating,  almost.  You  looked  up, 
suddenly,  and  she  was  not  there.  Outside  there 
sounded  the  sharp  bleat  of  a  motor  horn — a  one- 
lung  motor  horn.  Two  short  staccato  blasts  fol 
lowed  by  a  long  one.  A  signal,  certainly. 

"The  poet,  Charley,"  said  Henry  Kemp;  and 
laughed  his  big  kind  laugh. 

"Ask  him  in,"  Mrs.  Payson  said.  "Aren't  you 
going  to  ask  your  young  man  to  come  in  ?"  Charley 
was  preparing  to  go. 

"What  for?"  she  asked  now. 

"To  meet  the  family.  Unless  you're  ashamed  of 
him.  When  I  was  a  girl " 

Great-aunt  Charlotte  sat  back  again,  waiting. 

"All  right,"  said  Charley.    "He'll  hate  it."    She 


THE  GIRLS  15? 

walked  across  the  room  smiling;  opened  the  door 
and  called  out  to  the  bleat  in  the  blackness : 

"Come  on  in!'* 

"What  for?" 

"Meet  the  family." 

"Oh,  say,  listen — 

You  heard  them  talking  and  giggling  a  little  to 
gether  in  the  hall.  Then  they  came  down  the  hall 
and  into  the  living  room,  these  two  young  things; 
these  two  beautiful  young  things.  And  suddenly 
the  others  in  the  room  felt  old — old  and  fat  and 
futile  and  done  with  life.  The  two  stood  there 
in  the  doorway  a  moment.  The  very  texture  of 
their  skin;  the  vitality  of  their  vigorous  hair  as  it 
sprang  away  in  a  fine  line  from  their  foreheads; 
the  liquid  blue-white  clearness  of  the  eyeball;  the 
poise  of  their  slim  bodies — was  youth. 

She  was  tall  but  he  was  taller.  His  hair  had  a 
warmer  glint;  it  was  almost  red.  In  certain  lights 
it  was  red.  The  faun  type.  Ears  a  little  pointed. 
Contemptuous  of  systems,  you  could  see  that;  met 
ric  or  rhythmic.  A  good  game  of  tennis,  proba 
bly.  Loathing  golf.  So  graceful  as  to  seem  almost 
slouchy.  Lean,  composed,  self-possessed.  White 
flannel  trousers  for  some  athletic  reason  (indoor 
tennis,  perhaps,  at  the  gym) ;  a  loose  great-coat 
buttoned  over  what  seemed  to  be  no  shirt  at  all. 
Certainly  not  a  costume  for  a  Chicago  March  night. 


158  THE  GIRLS 

He  wore  it  with  a  full  dress  air.  And  yet  a  cer 
tain  lovable  shyness. 

Charley  waved  a  hand  in  a  gesture  that  somehow 
united  him  with  the  room — the  room  full  of  eyes 
critical,  amused,  appraising,  speculative,  disapprov 
ing. 

"Mother  and  Dad  you  know,  of  course.  Grand 
mother  Payson,  my  Aunt  Lottie — Lotta  for  short. 
Mr.  Ben  Gartz  .  .  .  Oh,  forgive  me,  Aunt  Char 
lotte,  I  thought  you'd  gone.  There  in  the  corner — 
my  great-aunt  Charlotte  Thrift  .  .  .  This  is  Jesse 
Dick." 

It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  see  an  old  woman  blush. 
The  swift,  dull  almost  thick  red  surged  painfully 
to  great-aunt  Charlotte's  face  now,  and  her  eyes 
were  suddenly  wide  and  dark,  like  a  young  girl's, 
startled.  Then  the  red  faded  and  left  her  face 
chalky,  ghastly.  It  was  as  though  a  relentless  hand 
had  wrapped  iron  fingers  around  her  heart  and 
squeezed  it  and  wrenched  it  once — tight  and  hard! 
— and  then  relaxed  its  grip.  She  peered  at  the  boy 
standing  there  in  the  doorway ;  peered  at  him  with 
dim  old  eyes  that  tried  to  pierce  the  veil  of  years 
and  years  and  years.  The  others  were  talking. 
Charley  had  got  her  wraps  from  the  hall,  and  was 
getting  into  her  galoshes.  This  cumbersome  and 
disfiguring  footgear  had  this  winter  become  the  fad 
among  university  co-eds  and  South  Side  flappers. 


THE  GIRLS  159 

They  wore  galoshes  on  stormy  days  and  fair.  The 
craze  had  started  during  a  blizzardy  week  in  Janu 
ary.  It  was  considered  chic  to  leave  the  two  top 
clasps  or  the  two  lower  clasps  open  and  flapping. 
The  origin  of  this  could  readily  be  traced  to  breath 
less  co-eds  late  for  classes.  All  young  and  femi 
nine  Hyde  Park  now  clumped  along  the  streets,  slim 
silken  shins  ending  grotesquely  in  thick  black  felt- 
and-rubber. 

Jesse  Dick  stooped  now  to  assist  in  the  clasping 
of  Charley's  galoshes.  He  was  down  on  one  knee. 
Charley,  teetering  a  little,  put  one  hand  on  his 
head  to  preserve  her  balance.  He  looked  up  at  her, 
smiling;  she  looked  down  at  him,  smiling.  Almost 
sixty  years  of  life  swept  back  over  great-aunt  Char 
lotte  Thrift  and  left  her  eighteen  again;  eighteen, 
and  hoop-skirted  in  her  second-best  merino,  with  a 
green- velvet  bonnet  and  a  frill  of  blond  lace,  and 
little  muddied  boots  and  white  stockings. 

She  could  not  resist  the  force  that  impelled  her 
now.  She  got  up  from  her  corner  and  came  over 
to  them.  The  talk  went  on  in  the  living  room.  They 
did  not  notice  her. 

"I  knew  your — I  knew  a  Jesse  Dick,"  she  said, 
"years  ago." 

The  boy  stood  up.     "Yes?     Did  you?" 

"He  died  in  the  Civil  War.  At  Donelson.  He 
was  killed — at  Donelson." 


160  THE  GIRLS 

The  boy  spatted  his  hands  together  a  little, 
briskly,  to  rid  them  of  a  bit  of  dried  mud  that  had 
clung  to  the  galoshes.  "That  must  have  been  my 
grandfather's  brother,"  he  said  politely.  "I've 
heard  them  speak  of  him." 

He  had  heard  them  speak  of  him.  Charlotte 
Thrift,  with  seventy-four  years  of  a  ruined  life 
heavy  upon  her,  looked  at  him.  He  had  heard  them 
speak  of  him.  "Pomroy  Dick?  Your  grandfather? 
Pomroy  Dick?" 

"Why,  yes !  Yes.  Did  you  know  him,  too  ?  He 
wasn't — we  Dicks  aren't — How  did  you  happen  to 
know  him?" 

"I  didn't  know  your  grandfather  Pomroy  Dick," 
said  Great-aunt  Charlotte,,  and  smiled  so  that  the 
withered  lips  drew  away  from  the  blue-white,  even 
teeth.  "It  was  Jesse  I  knew."  She  looked  up  at 
him.  "Jesse  Dick." 

Charley  leaned  over  and  pressed  her  fresh  dewy 
young  lips  to  the  parchment  cheek.  "Now  isn't  that 
interesting!  Good-bye  dear."  She  stopped  and 
flashed  a  mischievous  glance  at  the  boy.  "Was  he 
a  poet  too,  Aunt  Charlotte?" 

"Yes." 

Jesse  Dick  turned  his  head  quickly  at  that.  "He 
was  ?  I  didn't  know  that.  Are  you  sure  ?  No  one 
in  our  family  ever  said " 

"I'm  sure,"   Great-aunt   Charlotte  Thrift  said, 


THE  GIRLS  161 

quietly.  "Families  don't  always  know.  About 
each  other,  I  mean." 

"No,  indeed,"  both  he  and  Charley  agreed,  po 
litely.  They  were  anxious  to  be  off.  They  were 
off,  with  a  good-bye  to  the  group  in  the  living  room. 
Charlotte  Thrift  turned  to  go  upstairs.  "Jesse 

Dick "  she  heard,  from  the  room  where  the 

others  sat.  "Dick "  She  turned  and  came  back 

swiftly,  and  seated  herself  again  in  the  dim  corner. 
Henry  Kemp  was  speaking,  his  face  all  agrin. 

"She's  a  case,  that  kid.  We  never  know.  Some 
weeks  it's  the  son  of  one  of  the  professors,  \vith 
horn  glasses  and  no  hat.  And  then  it'll  be  a  mil 
lionaire  youngster  she's  met  at  a  dance,  and  the 
place  will  be  cluttered  up  with  his  Stutz  and  his  or 
chids  and  Plow's  candy  for  awhile.  Now  it's  this 
young  Dick." 

Ben  Gartz  waggled  his  head.  "These  young 
sters  !"  he  remarked,  meaninglessly.  "These  young 
sters!" 

But  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  spoke  with  meaning. 
"Who  is  he?  Dick?  I've  never  heard  the  name. 
Who're  his  folks?" 

An  uneasy  rustle  from  Belle.  "He  is  a  poet,"  she 
said.  "Quite  a  good  one,  too.  Some  of  his  stuff 
is  really — -— " 

"Who're  his  folks  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Carrie  Pay- 
son.  "They're  not  poets  too,  are  they?" 


162  THE  GIRLS 

Henry  Kemp's  big  laugh  burst  out  again,,  then,  in 
spite  of  Belle's  warning  rustle.  "His  father's  'Del 
icatessen  Dick/  over  on  Fifty-third.  We  get  all  our 
cold  cuts  there,  and  the  most  wonderful  pickled 
herring.  They  say  they're  put  up  in  some  special 
way  from  a  recipe  that's  been  in  the  family  for 
years.  Holland  Dutch,  I  guess " 

But  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  had  heard  enough. 
"Well,  I  must  say,  Belle,  you're  overdoing  this  free 
dom  business  with  Charley.  'Delicatessen  Dick!'  I 
suppose  the  poet  sells  the  herrings  over  the  coun 
ter?  I  suppose  he  gives  you  an  extra  spoonful 
of  onions  when  you " 

Belle  spoke  up  tartly:  "He  isn't  in  the  store, 
mother.  His  people  have  loads  of  money.  They're 
very  thrifty  and  nice  respectable  people.  Of  course 
— everybody  in  Hyde  Park  goes  to  Dick's  for  their 
Sunday  night  supper  things." 

"His  mother's  a  fine  looking  woman,"  Henry 
Kemp  put  in.  "She's  the  smart  one.  Practically 
runs  the  business,  I  hear.  Old  Dick  is  kind  of  a 
dreamer.  I  guess  dreaming  doesn't  go  in  the  deli 
catessen  business." 

"It'll  be  nice  for  Charley,"  Mrs.  Payson  remarked, 
grimly.  "With  her  training  at  college.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  they'd  put  her  in  charge  of  all  the  cold 
meats,  maybe.  Or  the  cheese." 


THE  GIRLS  163 

"Now  Mother  Payson,  Charley's  only  a  kid. 
Don't  you  go  worrying " 

Belle  spoke  with  some  hauteur.  "He  does  not 
live  at  home.  He  has  a  room  near  the  University. 
He's  fond  of  his  parents  but  not  in  sympathy  with 
the  business.  His  work  appears  regularly  in 
Poetry,  and  they  accept  only  the  best.  He  worked 
his  way  through  college  without  a  penny  from  his 
people.  And,"  as  a  triumphant  finish — "he  has  a 
book  coming  out  this  spring." 

"Ha!"  laughed  Henry  Kemp,  jovially.  Then 
suddenly  sobering,  regarded  the  glowing  end  of  his 
cigar.  "But  they  do  say  it's  darned  good  poetry. 
People  who  know.  Crazy — but  good.  I  read  one 
of  'em.  It's  all  about  dead  horses  and  entrails 

and "  he  stopped  and  coughed  apologetically. 

"His  new  book  is  going  to  be  called Here  he 

went  off  into  a  silent  spasm  of  laughter. 

"Henry,  you  know  that's  just  because  you  don't 
understand.  It's  the  new  verse." 

"His  new  book,,"  Henry  Kemp  went  on,  gravely, 
"is  called  White  Worms.'  " 

He  looked  at  Ben  Gartz.  The  two  men  laughed 
uproariously. 

Mrs.  Payson  sat  forward  stiffly  in  her  rocking 
chair.  "And  you  let  Charley  go  about  with  this 
person!" 


164  THE  GIRLS 

"Oh,  mother,  please.  Let's  not  discuss  Charley's 
affairs.  Mr.  Gartz  can't  be  interested." 

"Oh,  but  I  am!  Aren't  you,  Miss  Lottie?  Young 
folks " 

"Besides,  all  the  girls  are  quite  mad  about  him. 
Charley's  the  envy  of  them  all.  He's  the  most 
sought-after  young  man  in  Hyde  Park.  He  wrote 
a  poem  to  Charley  that  appeared  in  Poetry  last 
month."  Belle  dismissed  the  whole  affair  with  a 
little  impatient  kick  of  her  foot  that  sent  the  dan 
gling  slipper  flying.  "Oh,  Henry — my  slipper!" 
Henry  retrieved  it.  "Besides  they're  only  children. 
Charley's  a  baby." 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  began  to  rock  in  the  squeaky 
chair,  violently.  "You  heard  what  she  said  about 
the  five." 

"The  five?" 

"About  the  five — you  know." 

In  the  laughter  that  followed  great-aunt  Char 
lotte  slipped  out  of  the  room,  vanished  up  the  stairs. 

Then  the  War,  of  course.  Ben  Gartz  was  the 
sort  that  kept  a  map  in  his  office,  with  coloured  pins 
stuck  everywhere  in  it.  They  began  to  talk  about 
the  War.  They  say  it'll  go  on  for  years  and  years ;  it 
can't,  the  Germans  are  starving;  don't  you  believe 
it,  they've  prepared  for  this  for  forty  years ;  aren't 
the  French  wonderful,  would  you  believe  it  to  look 
at  them  so  shrimpy;  it's  beginning  to  look  pretty 


THE  GIRLS  165 

black  for  them  just  the  same ;  we'll  be  in  it  yet,  you 
mark  my  words;  should  have  gone  in  a  year  ago, 
that  was  the  time;  if  ever  we  do  zowie. 

Lottie  sat  knitting.  Ben  Gartz  reached  over  and 
fingered  the  soft  springy  mass  of  wool.  There  was 
an  intimacy  about  the  act.  "If  we  go  into  it  and 
I  go  off  to  war  will  you  knit  me  some  of  these,  Miss 
Lottie?  H'm?" 

Lottie  lifted  her  eyes.  "If  you  go  off  to  fight  I'll 
knit  you  a  whole  outfit,  complete:  socks,  muffler, 
helmet,  wristlets,  sweater." 

"  'Death,  where  is  thy  sting' !"  Ben  Gartz  rolled 
a  pale  blue  eye. 

Henry  Kemp  was  not  laughing  now.  His  face 
looked  a  little  drawn  and  old.  He  had  allowed  his 
cigar  to  go  dead  in  the  earnestness  of  the  war  talk. 
"You're  safe,  Lottie.  It'll  be  over  before  we  can 
ever  go  into  it." 

Ben  Gartz  flapped  a  hand  in  disagreement. 
"Don't  you  be  too  sure  of  that.  I've  heard  it  pretty 
straight  that  we'll  be  in  by  this  time  next  year — if 
not  before.  I've  had  an  offer  to  go  into  the  men's 
watch-bracelet  business  on  the  strength  of  it.  And 
if  we  do  I'm  going  to  take  it.  Fortune  in  it." 

"Men's  watch  bracelets!  Real  men  don't  wear 
them.  Mollycoddles!" 

"Oh,  don't  they!  No  I  guess  not!  Only  engi 
neers,  and  policemen  and  aviators  and  soldiers, 


i66  THE  GIRLS 

that's  all.  Mollycoddles  like  that.  They  say  they 
aren't  wearing  any  kind  but  wrist  watches  over 
there.  Well,  if  we  go  into  the  war  I  go  into  the 
men's  watch-bracelet  business,  that's  what.  For 
tune  in  it." 

"Yeh,"  said  Henry  Kemp,,  haggardly.  "If  we 
go  into  the  war  I  go  into  the  poor-house." 

Belle  stood  up,  decisively.  "It's  getting  late, 
Henry." 

Mrs.  Payson  bristled.  "It's  only  a  little  after 
nine.  You  only  come  once  a  week.  I  should  think 
you  needn't  run  off  right  after  dinner." 

"But  it  isn't  right  after  dinner,  mother.  Besides 
Henry  has  been  working  terribly  hard.  He's  worn 
out." 

Mrs.  Payson,  who  knew  the  state  of  Henry's  busi 
ness,  sniffed  in  unbelief.  But  they  went.  In  the 
hall: 

"Then  you'll  be  in  to-morrow  morning,  Lottie?" 

"Yes."     Lottie  seemed  a  little  pale. 

Mrs.  Payson's  face  hardened. 

You  heard  a  roar  outside.  Henry  warming  up 
the  engine.  Snorts  and  chugs,  then  a  gigantic  purr. 
They  were  off. 

The  three  settled  down  again  in  the  living  room. 
Mrs.  Payson  liked  to  talk  to  men.  Years  of  busi 
ness  intercourse  had  accustomed  her  to  them.  She 
liked  the  way  their  minds  worked,  clear  and  hard. 


THE  GIRLS  167 

When  Lottie  had  company  she  almost  always  sat 
with  them.  Lottie  had  never  hinted  that  this  was 
not  quite  as  it  should  be.  She  never  even  told  her 
self  that  perhaps  this  might  have  had  something 
to  do  with  her  being  Lottie  Payson  still. 

She  was  glad  enough  to  have  her  mother  remain 
in  the  room  this  evening.  She  sat,  knitting.  She 
was  thinking  of  Orville  Sprague,  and  of  Ben  Gartz. 
Of  Charley  and  this  boy — this  Jesse  Dick.  How 
slim  the  boy  was,  and  how  young,  and  how — vital ! 
That  was  it,  vital.  His  jaw  made  such  a  clean, 
clear  line.  It  almost  hurt  you  with  its  beauty. 
.  .  .  Beck  Schaefer  .  .  .  Bell  hop  ...  So  that 
was  what  Henry  had  meant.  Youth's  appeal  to 
women  of  her  age.  A  morbid  appeal.  .  .  . 

She  shook  herself  a  little.  Her  mother  and  Ben 
Gartz  were  talking. 

"That's  a  pretty  good  proposition  you  got  there, 
Mrs.  Payson,  if  you  can  swing  it.  I  wouldn't  be  in 
any  hurry,  if  I  was  you.  You  hang  on  to  it." 

There  always  was  talk  of  "propositions"  and 
"deals"  when  Mrs.  Payson  conversed  with  one  of 
Lottie's  callers. 

"I  think  a  good  deal  of  your  advice,  Mr.  Gartz. 
After  all,  I'm  only  a  woman  alone.  I  haven't  got 
anyone  to  advise  me." 

"You  don't  need  anybody,  Mrs.  Payson.  You're 
as  shrewd  as  that  Rolfe  is,  any  day.  He's  waiting 


168  THE  GIRLS 

to  see  how  this  war's  going  to  go.  Well,  you  wait 
too.  You've  got  a  good  proposition  there " 

Lottie  rose.  "I'll  get  you  something  to  drink," 
she  said. 

He  caught  her  arm.  "Now  don't  you  bother, 
Miss  Lottie."  He  always  called  her  "Miss  Lottie" 
when  others  were  there,  and  "Lottie"  when  they 
were  alone. 

But  she  went,  and  came  back  with  ginger  ale,, 
and  some  cookies.  Something  in  his  face  as  he 
caught  sight  of  these  chaste  viands  smote  her  kindly 
and  understanding  heart.  She  knew  her  mother 
would  disapprove,  would  oppose  it.  But  the  same 
boldness  that  had  prompted  her  to  speak  at  dinner 
now  urged  her  to  fresh  flights  of  daring. 

"What  would  you  say  to  a  cup  of  nice  hot  coffee 
and  some  cold  chicken  sandwiches !" 

"Oh,  say,  Miss  Lottie!  I  couldn't  think— this 
is  all  right."  But  his  eyes  brightened. 

"Nonsense,  Lottie!"  said  Mrs.  Payson,  sharply. 
:"Mr.  Gartz  doesn't  want  coffee." 

"Yes  he  does.  Don't  you  ?  Come  on  in  the  kitchen 
while  I  make  it.  We'll  all  have  a  bite  at  the  dining 
room  table.  I'll  cut  the  bread  if  you'll  butter  it." 

Ben  Gartz  got  up  with  alacrity.  "No  man  who 
lives  in  a  hotel  could  resist  an  offer  like  that,,  Miss 
Lottie."  He  frisked  heavily  off  to  the  kitchen  in 
her  wake.  Mrs.  Payson  stood  a  moment,  tasting 


THE  GIRLS  169 

the  unaccustomed  bitter  pill  of  opposition.  Then 
she  tnok  her  stout  cane  from  a  corner  where  she  had 
placea  it  and  followed  after  them  to  the  kitchen, 
sniffing  the  delicious  scent  of  coffee-in-the-making 
as  though  it  were  poison  gas.  Later  they  played 
dummy  bridge.  Lottie  did  not  play  bridge  well. 
She  failed  to  take  the  red  and  black  spots  seriously. 
Mrs.  Payson  would  overbid  regularly.  If  you  had 
told  her  that  this  was  a  form  of  dishonesty  she 
would  have  put  you  down  as  queer.  Ben  Gartz 
squinted  through  his  cigar  smoke,  slapped  the  cards 
down  hard,  roared  at  Mrs.  Payson's  tactics  (he  had 
been  a  good  son  to  his  mother,  remember)  and 
sought  Lottie's  knee  under  the  table. 

".  .  .  going  to  marry  at  twenty  and  have  five 
children,  one  right  after  the  other " 

"Lottie  Payson,  what  are  you  thinking  of !"  Her 
mother's  outraged  voice. 

"Why— what " 

"You  trumped  my  ace!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

EVERY  morning  between  eight-thirty  and  nine 
a  boy  from  the  filite  Garage  on  Twenty-sixth 
Street  brought  the  Payson  electric  to  the  door.  He 
trundled  it  up  to  the  curb  with  the  contempt  that 
it  deserved.  Your  self-respecting  garage  me 
chanic  is  contemptuous  of  all  electric  conveyances, 
but  this  young  man  looked  on  the  Payson's  senile 
vehicle  as  a  personal  insult.  He  manipulated  its 
creaking  levers  and  balky  brakes  as  a  professional 
pitcher  would  finger  a  soft  rubber  ball — thing  be 
neath  pity.  As  he  sprang  out  of  it  in  his  jersey 
and  his  tight  pants  and  his  long-visored  green  cap 
he  would  slam  its  ancient  door  behind  him  with 
such  force  as  almost  to  set  it  rocking  on  its  four 
squat  wheels.  Then  he  would  pass  round  behind  it, 
kick  one  of  its  asphalt-gnawed  rubber  tires  with 
a  vindictive  boot  and  walk  off  whistling  back  to  the 
filite  Garage.  Lottie  had  watched  this  performance 
a  thousand  times,  surely.  She  was  always  disap 
pointed  if  he  failed  to  kick  the  tire.  It  satisfied 
something  in  her  to  see  him  do  it. 

This  morning  Lottie  was  up,  dressed,  and  tele- 

170 


THE  GIRLS  171 

phoning  the  felite  Garage  before  eight  o'clock. 
She  wanted  to  make  an  early  start.  She  meant  to 
use  the  electric  in  order  to  save  time.  Without 
it  the  trip  between  the  Payson's  house  on  Prairie 
Avenue  and  the  Kemp's  on  Hyde  Park  Boulevard 
near  the  lake  was  a  pilgrimage  marked  by  dreary 
waits  on  clamorous  corners  for  dirty  yellow  cars 
that  never  came. 

Early  as  she  was  Lottie  had  heard  Aunt  Charlotte 
astir  much  earlier.  She  had  not  yet  come  down, 
however.  Mrs.  Payson  had  already  breakfasted 
and  read  the  paper.  After  Mrs.  Payson  had  fin 
ished  with  a  newspaper  its  page-sequence  was  irrev 
ocably  ruined  for  the  next  reader.  Its  sport  sheet 
mingled  with  the  want  ads;  its  front  page  lay 
crumpled  upon  Music  and  the  Drama.  Lottie 
sometimes  wondered  if  her  own  fondness  for  a 
neatly  folded  uncrumpled  morning  paper  was  only 
another  indication  of  chronic  spinsterhood.  Aunt 
Charlotte  had  once  said,  as  she  smoothed  the  wrin 
kled  sheets  with  her  wavering  withered  fingers, 
"Reading  a  newspaper  after  you've  finished  with  it, 
Carrie,  is  like  getting  the  news  three  days  stale. 
No  flavour  to  it." 

Lottie  scarcely  glanced  at  the  headlines  as  she 
drank  her  coffee  this  morning.  Her  mother  was 
doing  something  or  other  at  the  sideboard.  Mrs. 
Payson  was  the  sort  of  person  who  does  slam.my 


172  THE  GIRLS 

flappy  things  in  a  room  where  you  happened  to  be 
breakfasting,  or  writing,  or  reading;  things  at 
which  you  could  not  express  annoyance  and  yet 
which  annoyed  you  to  the  point  of  frenzy.  She 
lifted  dishes  and  put  them  down.  She  rattled  sil 
ver  in  the  drawer.  She  tugged  at  a  sideboard  door 
that  always  stuck.  She  made  notes  on  a  piece  of 
wrapping  paper  with  a  hard  pencil  and  tapping 
sounds.  All  interspersed  with  a  spasmodic  conver 
sation  carried  on  in  a  high  voice  with  Hulda  in  the 
kitchen,  the  swinging  door  of  the  pantry  between 
them. 

"Need  any  rice?'' 

"Wat?" 

"Rice!" 

"We  got  yet." 

More  tapping  of  the  pencil  accompanied  by  a 
sotto  voce  murmur — "Soap  .  .  .  kitchen  cleanser 
.  .  .  new  potatoes  .  .  .  see  about  electric  light 

bulbs  .  .  .  coffee "  she  raised  her  voice  again : 

"We've  got  plenty  of  coffee  I  know." 

Silence  from  the  kitchen. 

"Hulda,  we've  got  plenty  of  coffee!  I  got  a 
pound  on  Wednesday." 

Silence.     Then— "He  don't  last  over  Sunday." 

"Not — why   my   dear   young   woman "   the 

swinging  door  whiffed  and  whoofed  with  the  energy 


THE  GIRLS  173 

of  her  exit  as  she  passed  into  the  kitchen  to  do  bat 
tle  with  the  coffee-toper. 

Lottie  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  frown  that 
her  rasped  nerves  had  etched  between  her  eyes. 
She  was  so  accustomed  to  these  breakfast  irrita 
tions  that  she  did  not  know  they  irritated  her.  She 
was  even  smiling  a  little,  grimly  amused. 

It  was  a  lowering  Chicago  March  morning,  gray, 
foggy,  sodden,  with  a  wet  blanket  wind  from  the 
lake  that  was  more  chilling  than  a  walk  through 
water  and  more  penetrating  than  severe  cold.  The 
months-old  soot-grimed  snow  and  ice  lay  every 
where.  The  front  page  predicted  rain.  Not  a  glint 
of  sunlight  filtered  through  the  yellow  pane  of  the 
stained-glass  window  in  the  Payson  dining  room. 
"Ugh!"  thought  Lottie  picturing  the  downtown 
streets  a  morass  of  mud  trampled  to  a  pudding  con 
sistency.  And  yet  she  smiled.  She  was  to  have 
the  morning  alone;  the  morning  from  eight  until 
almost  noon.  There  was  Gussie  to  interview. 
There  was  Judge  Barton  to  confer  with — dear 
Emma  Barton.  There  was  poor  Jennie  to  dispose 
of.  There  was  work  to  do.  Real  work.  Lottie 
rose  from  the  table  and  stood  in  the  pantry  door 
way  holding  the  swinging  door  open  with  one  foot 
as  she  was  getting  into  her  coat. 

"I'll  be  back  by  noon,  mother,  surely.  Perhaps 
earlier.  Then  we'll  go  right  over  to  your  buildings 


174  THE  GIRLS 

and  collect  the  rents  and  market  on  the  way  back/' 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Payson  only.  Her  mouth  was 
pursed. 

"For  that  matter,  I  think  it's  so  foolish  to  bother 
about  Sunday  dinner.  We  always  get  up  later  on 
Sunday,  and  eat  more  for  breakfast.  Let's  just 
have  lunch  this  once.  Let's  try  it.  Forget  about 
the  leg  of  lamb  or  the  roast  beef " 

Mrs.  Payson  raised  her  eyebrows  in  the  direction 
of  the  listening  Hulda.  "I'll  leave  that  kind  of 
thing  to  your  sister  Belle — this  new  idea  of  getting 
up  at  noon  on  Sunday  and  then  having  no  proper 
Sunday  dinner.  We've  always  had  Sunday  dinners 
in  this  house  and  we  always  will  have  as  long  as  I'm 
head  of  the  household." 

"Well,  I  just  thought "  Lottie  released  the 

swinging  door.  She  came  back  into  the  dining 
room  and  glanced  at  herself  in  the  sideboard  mirror. 
Lottie  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  looks  well  in 
the  morning.  A  clear  skin,  a  clear  eye,  hair  that 
springs  cleanly  away  from  the  temples.  This  morn 
ing  she  looked  more  than  usually  alert.  A  little 
half-smile  of  anticipation  was  on  her  lips.  The 
lowering  weather,  her  mother's  dourness,  Hulda's 
slightly  burned  toast — she  had  allowed  none  of  these 
things  to  curdle  the  cream  of  her  morning's  adven 
ture.  She  was  wearing  her  suit  and  furs  and  the 
small  velvet  hat  whose  doom  Belle  had  pronounced 


THE  GIRLS  175 

the  evening  before.  As  she  drew  on  her  gloves  her 
mother  entered  the  dining  room. 

"I'll  be  back  by  noon,  surely."  Mrs.  Payson  did 
not  answer.  Lottie  went  down  the  long  hall  to 
ward  the  front  door.  Her  mother  followed. 

"Going  to  Belle's?" 

"Yes.     I'll  have  to  hurry." 

At  the  door  Mrs.  Payson  flung  a  final  command. 
"You'd  better  go  South  Park  to  Grand." 

Lottie  had  meant  to.  It  was  the  logical  route  to 
Belle's.  She  had  taken  it  a  thousand  times.  Yet 
now,  urged  by  some  imp  of  perversity,  she  was  as 
tonished  to  hear  herself  saying,  "No,,  I'm.  going  up 
Prairie  to  Fifty-first."  The  worst  possible  road. 

She  did  not  mind  the  wet  gray  wind  as  she  clanked 
along  in  the  little  box-like  contrivance,  up  Prairie 
Avenue,  over  Thirty-first,  past  gray  stone  and  brick 
mansions  whose  former  glory  of  fagade  and  stone- 
and-iron  fence  and  steps  showed  the  neglect  and 
decay  following  upon  negro  occupancy.  It  was  too 
bad,  she  thought.  Chicago  was  like  a  colossal  and 
slovenly  young  woman  who,  possessing  great  nat 
ural  beauty,  is  still  content  to  slouch  about  in  greasy 
wrapper  and  slippers  run  down  at  heel. 

The  Kemps  lived  in  one  of  the  oldest  of  Hyde 
Park's  apartment  houses  and  one  as  nearly  aristo 
cratic  as  a  Chicago  South  Side  apartment  house  can 
be.  It  was  on  Hyde  Park  Boulevard,  near  Jackson 


176  THE  GIRLS 

Park  and  the  lake.  When  Belle  had  married  she 
had  protested  at  an  apartment.  She  had  never 
lived  in  one,  she  said.  She  didn't  think  she  could. 
She  would  stifle.  No  privacy.  Everything  hud 
dled  together  on  one  floor  and  everybody  underfoot. 
People  upstairs;  people  downstairs.  But  houses 
were  scarce  in  Hyde  Park  and  she  and  Henry  had 
compromised  on  an  apartment  much  too  large  for 
them  and  as  choice  as  anything  for  miles  around. 
There  were  nine  rooms.  The  two  front  rooms  were 
a  parlour  and  sitting  room  but  not  many  years  had 
passed  before  Belle  did  away  with  this.  Belle  had 
caused  all  sorts  of  things  to  be  done  to  the  apart 
ment — at  Henry's  expense,  not  the  landlord's. 
Year  after  year  partitions  had  been  removed;  old 
fixtures  torn  out  and  modern  ones  installed;  dark 
woodwork  had  been  cream  enamelled;  the  old  par 
lour  and  sitting  room  had  been  thrown  into  one 
enormous  living  room.  They  had  even  built  a  "sun- 
parlour"  without  which  no  Chicago  apartment  is 
considered  complete.  As  it  eats,,  sleeps,  plays 
bridge,  reads,  sews,  writes,  and  lounges  in  those 
little  many-windowed  peep-shows  all  Chicago's  fam 
ily  life  is  an  open  book  to  its  neighbour. 

Belle's  front  room  was  a  carefully  careless  place 
— livable,  inviting — with  its  books,  and  lamps, 
and  plump  low  chairs  mothering  unexpected  tables 
nestled  at  their  elbows — tantalising  little  tables 


THE  GIRLS  177 

holding  the  last  new  novel,  face  downward ;  a  smart 
little  tooled  leather  box  primly  packed  with  cigar 
ettes  ;  a  squat  wooden  bowl,  very  small,  whose  tipped 
cover  revealed  a  glimpse  of  vivid  scrunchy  fruit- 
drops  within.  Splashes  of  scarlet  and  orange  bitter 
sweet  in  lustre  bowls,  loot  of  Charley's  autumn  days 
at  the  dunes.  A  roll  of  watermelon-pink  wool  and 
a  ball  of  the  same  shade  in  one  corner  of  the  deep 
davenport,  with  two  long  amber  needles  stuck 
through  prophesied  the  first  rainbow  note  of  Char 
ley's  summer  wardrobe.  The  grand  piano  holding 
a  book  of  Chopin  and  a  chromo-covered  song-hit 
labeled,  incredibly  enough,  Tya-da-dee.  It  was 
as  unlike  the  Prairie  Avenue  living  room  as  Charley 
was  unlike  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson.  Belle  had  recently 
had  the  sun-parlour  done  in  the  new  Chinese  furni 
ture — green  enameled  wood  with  engaging  little 
Chinese  figures  and  scenes  painted  on  it;  queer 
gashes  of  black  here  and  there  and  lamp  shades 
shaped  like  some  sort  of  Chinese  head-gear;  no  one 
knew  quite  what.  Surely  no  Mongolian — coolie  or 
mandarin — would  have  recognised  the  origin  of 
anything  in  the  Chinese  sun-parlour. 

Gussie  answered  the  door.  An  admirable  young 
woman,  Gussie,,  capable,  self-contained,  self-respect 
ing.  Sprung  from  a  loose-moraled  slovenly  house 
hold,  she  had,  somehow,  got  the  habit  of  personal 
cleanliness  and  of  straight  thinking.  Gussie's  pas- 


178  THE  GIRLS 

try  hand  was  a  light,  deft,  clean  one.  Gussie's  bed 
room  had  none  of  the  kennel  stuffiness  of  the 
average  kitchen-bedroom.  Gussie's  pride  in  her 
own  bathroom  spoke  in  shining  tiles  and  gleaming 
porcelain. 

"Oo.,  Miss  Lottie!  How  you  are  early!  Mrs. 
ain't  up  at  all  yet.  Miss  Charley  she  is  in  bath 
tub." 

'That's  all  right,  Gussie.  I  came  to  see  you." 
Gussie's  eyes  were  red-rimmed.  "Yeh  .  .  . 
Jennie  .  .  ."  She  led  the  way  back  to  the  kitchen ; 
a  sturdy  young  woman  facing  facts  squarely.  Her 
thick-tongued  speech  told  of  her  Slavic  origin.  She 
went  on  with  her  morning's  work  as  she  talked  and 
Lottie  listened.  Hers  was  a  no-good  family.  Her 
step-father  she  dismissed  briefly  as  a  bum.  Her 
mother  was  always  getting  mixed  up  with  the  board 
ers — that  menace  of  city  tenement  life.  And  now 
Jennie.  Jennie  wasn't  bad.  Only  she  liked  a  good 
time.  The  two  brothers  (rough,  lowering  fellows) 
were  always  a-jumping  on  Jennie.  It  was  fierce. 
They  wouldn't  let  her  go  out  with  the  fellas.  In 
the  street  they  yelled  at  her  and  shamed  Jennie 
for  Jennie's  crowd  right  out.  They  wanted  she 
should  marry  one  of  the  boarders.  Well,  say,  he 
had  money  sure,  but  old  like  Jennie's  own  father. 
Jennie  was  only  seventeen.  All  this  while  Gussie 


THE  GIRLS  179 

was  slamming  expertly  from  table  to  sink,  from 
sink  to  stove. 

"Seventeen!  Why  doesn't  she  leave  home  and 
work  out  as  you  do,,  Gussie  ?  Housework." 

Jennie,  it  appeared  was  too  toney  for  housework. 
"Like  this  Jennie  is."  Gussie  took  a  smudged  en 
velope  from  her  pocket  and  opened  it  with  damp 
fingers.  With  one  blunt  finger-tip  she  pointed  to 
the  signature.  It  was  a  pencil-scrawled  letter  from 
Jennie  to  her  sister  and  it  was  signed,  flourishingly, 
"Jeannette." 

"Oh,"  said  Lottie.     "I  see." 

Jennie,  then,  worked  by  factory.  She  paid  board 
at  home.  She  helped  with  the  housework  evenings 
and  Sundays.  But  always  they  yelled  at  her.  And 
then  Jennie  had  taken  one  hundred  dollars  and  had 
run  away  from  home. 

"Jennie  is  smart,,"  Gussie  said,  in  conclusion,  "she 
is  smart  like  machine.  She  can  make  in  her  head 
figgers.  She  finished  school  she  wanted  she  should 
go  by  business  college  for  typewriter  and  work  in 
office  but  ma  and  my  brothers  they  won't  let.  They 
yell  and  they  yell  and  so  Jennie  works  by  factory." 

It  was  all  simple  enough  to  Lottie.  She  had  sat 
in  many  sessions  of  Judge  Barton's  court.  "You'd 
rather  not  go  with  me,  Gussie?" 

Gussie  shook  a  vehement  head.  "Better  you 
should  go  alone.  Right  away  I  cry  and  yell  for 


i8o  THE  GIRLS 

scared,  Jennie  she  begin  cry  and  yell,  ma  she  begin 
cry  and — — " 

"All  right,  Gussie  .  .  .  Whose  hundred  dollars 
was  it?" 

"Otto.  He  is  big  brother.  He  is  mad  like  every 
thing.  He  say  he  make  Jennie  go  by  jail " 

"Oh,  no,  Gussie.  He  can't  do  that  without  Judge 
Barton,  and  shell  never " 

Gussie  vanished  into  her  bedroom.  She  emerged 
again  with  a  stout  roll  of  grimy  bills  in  her  hand. 
These  she  proffered  Lottie.  "Here  is  more  as  fifty 
dollar.  I  save'm.  You  should  give  to  judge  he 
shouldn't  send  Jennie  to  jail."  Gussie  was  of  the 
class  that  never  quite  achieves  one  hundred  dollars. 
Seventy — eighty — eighty-five — and  then  the  dentist 
or  doctor. 

Lottie  gave  the  girl's  shoulder  a  little  squeeze. 
"Oh,  Gussie,  you  funny  dear  child.  The  judge  is 
a  woman.  And  besides  it  isn't  right  to  bribe 
the " 

"No-o-o-o !  A  woman !  In  my  life  I  ain't  heard 
how  a  woman  is  judge." 

"Well,  this  one  is.  And  Jennie  won't  go  by  jail. 
I  promise  you." 

Down  the  hall  sped  a  figure  in  a  pongee  bathrobe, 
corded  at  the  waist,  slim  and  sleek  as  a  goldfish. 
Charley. 

"I  heard  you  come  in.     Finished?     Then  sit  and 


THE  GIRLS  181 

talk  sociable  while  I  dress.  You  can  speed  a  bit 
on  the  way  downtown  and  make  it.  Step  on  the 
oF  batteries.  Please!  Did  you  fix  things  with 
Gussie?" 

"Yeh,"  Gussie  answered,  comfortably,  but  she 
wore  a  puzzled  frown.  "She  fix.  Judge  is  woman. 
Never  in  my  life " 

"Gussie,  ma'am,  will  you  let  me  have  my  break 
fast  tray  in  the  sun-parlour?  It's  such  a  glummy 
morning.  That's  a  nice  girl.  About  five  minutes." 

And  it  wasn't  more  than  five.  Lottie,  watching 
Charley  in  the  act  of  dressing  wondered  what  that 
young  woman's  grandmother  or  great-aunt  would 
have  thought  of  the  process.  She  decided  that  her 
dead-and-gone  great-grandmother  —  that  hoop- 
skirted,  iron-stayed,  Victorian  lady  all  encased  in 
linings,,  buckram,  wool,  wire,  merino,  and  starch 
— would  have  swooned  at  the  sight.  Charley's  gar 
ments  were  so  few  and  scant  as  to  be  Chinese  in 
their  simplicity.  She  wore,  usually,  three  wispy 
garments,  not  counting  shoes  and  stockings.  She 
proceeded  to  don  them  now.  First  she  pulled  the 
stockings  up  tight  and  slick,  then  cuffed  them  just 
below  the  knee.  This  cuff  she  then  twisted  deftly 
round,  caught  the  slack  of  it,  twisted  that  rope-like, 
caught  the  twist  neatly  under  a  fold,  rolled  the  fold 
down  tight  and  hard  three  inches  below  the  knee 
and  left  it  there,  an  ingenious  silken  bracelet. 


182  THE  GIRLS 

There  it  stayed,  fast  and  firm,  unaided  by  garter, 
stay,  or  elastic.  Above  this  a  pair  of  scant  knick 
ers  of  jersey  silk  or  muslin;  a  straight  little  shirt 
with  straps  over  the  shoulders  or,  sometimes,  just 
a  brassiere  that  bound  the  young  breasts.  Over 
this  slight  foundation  went  a  slim,  scant  frock  of 
cloth.  That  was  all.  She  was  a  pliant  wheat- 
sheaf,  a  gracile  blade,  a  supple  spear  (see  verses 
"To  C.K."  in  Poetry  Magazine  for  February,  signed 
Jesse  Dick).  She  twisted  her  hair  into  a  knot  that, 
worn  low  on  the  neck,  would  have  been  a  test  for 
anyone  but  Charley.  She  now  pursed  her  lips  a 
little  critically,  and  leaned  forward  close  to  her  mir 
ror.  Charley's  lips  were  a  little  too  full,  the  carp 
ing  said;  the  kind  of  lips  known  as  "bee-stung." 
Charley  hated  her  mouth;  said  it  was  coarse  and 
sensual.  Others  did  not  think  so.  See  poem 
"Your  Lips"  in  Century  Magazine,  June.) 

"There!"  she  said  and  turned  away  from  the 
mirror.  The  five  minutes  were  just  up. 

"Meaning you're  dressed?" 

"Dressed.     Why  of " 

"Sketchy,  I  calls  it.  But  I  suppose  it's  all  right. 
You're  covered,  anyway.  Only  I  hope  your  grand- 
mother'll  never  witness  the  sight  I've  seen  this 
morning.  You  make  me  feel  like  an  elderly  Es 
quimau  sewed  up  for  the  winter." 


THE  GIRLS  183 

Charley  shrugged  luxuriously.  "I  hate  a  lot  of 
clothes." 

Her  tray  awaited  her  on  the  table  in  the  sun- 
parlour — fruit,  toast,  steaming  hot  chocolate.  "I've 
got  to  go./'  Lottie  kept  murmuring  and  leaned  in 
the  doorway  watching  her.  Charley  attacked  the 
food  with  a  relish  that  gave  you  an  appetite.  She 
rolled  an  ecstatic  eye  at  the  first  sip  of  chocolate. 
"Oo,  hot !  Sure  you  won't  have  some  ?"  She  de 
molished  the  whole  daintily  and  thoroughly.  As 
she  sat  there  in  the  cruel  morning  light  of  the  many- 
windowed  little  room  she  was  as  pink-cheeked  and 
bright-eyed  and  scrubbed-looking  as  a  Briggs  boy 
ready  for  supper.  You  could  see  the  fine  pores  of 
her  skin. 

Lottie  began  to  button  her  coat.  Charley  chased 
a  crumb  of  toast  around  her  plate.  "What,  if  any, 
do  you  think  of  him?" 

Lottie  had  seen  and  met  shoals  of  Charley's 
young  men.  "Suitors"  \vas  the  official  South  Side 
name  for  them.  But  Charley  had  never  asked  Lot 
tie's  opinion  of  one  of  them. 

"Charming  youngster.  I  grew  quite  mooney, 
after  you'd  gone,,  thinking  about  him,  and  trumped 
mother's  ace.  He  doesn't  look  like  a  poet — that  is, 
poet." 

"They  never  do.  Good  poets,  I  mean.  I've  often 
thought  it  was  all  for  the  best  that  Rupert  Brooke — 


i&4  THE  GIRLS 

that  Byron  collar  of  his.  Fancy  by  the  time 
he  became  forty  .  .  .  you  really  think  he's 
charming  ?" 

"So  does  your  mother.     Last  night  she  was  en 
thusiastic — about  his  work." 

"M-m-m.  Mother's  partial  to  young  poets." 
Between  Charley  and  her  mother  there  existed 
an  unwritten  code.  Charley  commanded  whole 
squads  of  devoted  young  men  in  assorted  sizes,  po 
sitions,  and  conditions.  Young  men  who  liked 
country  hikes  and  wayside  lunches ;  young  men  who 
preferred  to  dance  at  the  Blackstone  on  Saturday 
afternoons;  young  men  who  took  Charley  to  the 
Symphony  concerts ;  young  men  who  read  to  her  out 
of  books.  And  Mrs.  Henry  Kemp,  youngish,  at 
tractive,  almost  twenty  years  of  married  life  with 
Henry  Kemp  behind  her,  relished  a  chat  with  these 
slim  youngsters.  A  lean-flanked  graceful  crew  they 
were,  for  the  most  part,  with  an  almost  feline  co 
ordination  of  muscle.  When  they  shook  hands  with 
you  their  grip  drove  the  rings  into  your  fingers. 
They  looked  you  in  the  eye — and  blushed  a  little. 
Jheir  profiles  would  have  put  a  movie  star  to  shame. 
Their  waists  were  slim  as  a  girl's  (tennis  and  base 
ball).  They  drove  low-slung  cars  around  Hyde 
Park  corners  with  death-defying  expertness. 
Nerveless;  not  talkative  and  yet  well  up  on  the 
small-talk  of  the  younger  set — Labour,  Socialism, 


THE  GIRLS  185 

sex,  baseball,  Freud,  psychiatry,  dancing  and — just 
now — the  War.  Some  were  all  for  dashing  across 
to  join  the  Lafayette  Escadrille.  Belle  Kemp  would 
have  liked  to  sit  and  talk  with  these  young  men — 
talk,  and  laugh,  and  dangle  her  slipper  on  the  end 
of  her  toe.  Charley  knew  this.  And  her  mother 
knew  she  knew.  No  pulling  the  wool  over  Char 
ley's  eyes.  No  pretending  to  play  the  chummy 
young  mother  with  her.  "Pal  stuff." 

So,  then,  "M-m-m,"  said  Charley,  sipping  the  last 
of  her  chocolate.  "Mother's  partial  to  young 
poets." 

Lottie  had  to  be  off.  She  cast  a  glance  down  the 
hall.  "Do  you  suppose  she's  really  asleep  still  ?  I'd 
like  to  talk  to  her  just  a  minute." 

"You  might  tap  once  at  the  door.  I  never  dis 
turb  her  in  the  morning.  But  I  don't  think  she's 
sleeping." 

Another  code  rule.  These  two — mother  and 
daughter — treated  one  another  with  polite  defer 
ence.  Never  intruded  on  each  other's  privacy. 
Rarely  interfered  with  each  other's  engagements. 
Mrs.  Kemp  liked  her  breakfast  in  bed — a  practice 
Charley  loathed.  Once  a  week  a  strapping  Swed 
ish  damsel  came  to  the  apartment  to  give  Mrs. 
Kemp  a  body  massage  and  what  is  known  as  a  "fa 
cial."  You  should  have  heard  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson 
on  the  subject.  Belle  defended  the  practice,  claim- 


1 86  THE  GIRLS 

ing  that  it  benefited  some  obscure  digestive  ailment 
from  which  she  suffered. 

Lottie  tapped  at  Belle's  door.  A  little  silence. 
Then  an  unenthusiastic  voice  bade  her  enter.  Belle 
was  in  bed,  resting.  Belle  looked  her  age  in  bed 
in  the  morning.  Slightly  haggard  and  a  little  yel 
low. 

"I  thought  it  must  be  you." 

"It  is." 

Belle  rolled  a  languid  eye.  "I  woke  up  feeling 
wretched.  How  about  this  Gussie  business?" 

"I'm  just  going  downtown.  It'll  turn  out  all 
right,  I  think." 

"Just  arrange  things  so  that  Gussie  won't  be 
upset  for  Tuesday.  You  wouldn't  think  she  was 
nervous,  to  look  at  her.  Great  huge  creature.  But 
when  she's  upset !  And  I  do  so  want  that  luncheon 
to  be  just  right.  Mrs.  Radcliffe  Phelps " 

Lottie  could  not  restrain  a  little  smile.  "Oh, 
Belle." 

Belle  turned  her  head  pettishly  on  the  pillow. 
"Oh,,  Belle!"  she  mimicked  in  an  astonishingly  un- 
grown-up  manner.  Indeed,  she  sounded  amazingly 
like  the  school-girl  of  Armour  Institute  days. 
"You're  more  like  mother  every  day,  Lottie."  Lot 
tie  closed  the  door  softly. 

Charley  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  "Don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you.  Here— I'll 


THE  GIRLS  187 

give  you  a  chocolatey  kiss.  Are  you  lunching  down 
town  ?  There's  a  darling  new  tea  room  just  opened 
in  the  Great  Lakes  Building 

"I've  promised  to  be  home  by  noon,  at  the  latest." 

"What  for?" 

"To  take  mother  marketing  and  over  to  the  West 
Side " 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake!" 

"You  have  your  job,  Charley.     This  is  mine." 

"Oh,  is  it?     Do  you  like  it?" 

"N-n-no." 

"Then  it  isn't." 

Lottie  flung  a  final  word  at  the  door.  "Even  a 
free  untrammelled  spirit  like  you  will  acknowledge 
that  such  a  thing  as  duty  does  exist,,  I  suppose?" 

Charley  leaned  over  the  railing  to  combat  that  as 
Lottie  flew  downstairs.  "There  is  no  higher  duty 
than  that  of  self-expression." 

"Gabble-gabble !"  laughed  Lottie,  at  the  vestibule 
door. 

"Coward!"  shouted  Charley  over  the  railing. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN  she  came  out  the  fog  was  beginning 
to  lift  over  the  lake  and  there  was  even  an 
impression  of  watery  lemon-coloured  sunshine  be 
hind  the  bank  of  gray.  Lottie's  spirits  soared.  As 
she  stepped  into  the  swaying  old  electric  there  came 
over  her  a  little  swooping  sensation  of  freedom. 
It  was  good  to  be  going  about  one's  business  thus, 
alone.  No  one  to  say,  "Slower!  Not  so  fast!" 
No  one  to  choose  the  maelstrom  of  State  and  Madi 
son  streets  as  the  spot  in  which  to  ask  her  opinion 
as  to  whether  this  sample  of  silk  matched  this  bit 
of  cloth.  A  licorice  lane  of  smooth  black  roadway 
ahead.  Down  Hyde  Park  Boulevard  and  across  to 
Drexel.  Down  the  long  empty  stretch  of  that  fine 
avenue  at  a  spanking  speed — spanking,  that  is,  for 
the  ancient  electric  whose  inside  protested  at  every 
revolution  of  the  wheels.  She  negotiated  the  nar 
rows  of  lower  Michigan  Avenue  and  emerged  into 
the  gracious  sweep  of  that  street  as  it  widened  at 
Twelfth.  She  always  caught  her  breath  a  little  at 
the  spaciousness  and  magnificence  of  those  blocks 
between  Twelfth  and  Randolph.  The  new  Field 

1 88 


THE  GIRLS  189 

Columbian  museum,,  a  white  wraith,  rose  out  of  the 
lake  mist  at  her  right.  Already  it  was  smudged 
with  the  smoke  of  the  I.  C.  engines.  A  pity,  Lottie 
thought.  She  always  felt  civic  when  driving  down 
Michigan.  On  one  side  Grant  Park  and  the  lake 
beyond;  on  the  other  the  smart  shops.  You  had 
to  keep  eyes  ahead,  but  now  and  then,  out  of  the 
corner  of  them,  you  caught  tantalising  glimpses  of 
a  scarlet  velvet  evening  wrap  in  the  window  of  the 
Blackstone  shop;  a  chic  and  trickily  simple  poiret 
twill  in  Vogue;  the  glint  of  silver  as  you  flashed 
past  a  jeweller's;  the  sooted  fagade  of  the  Art  Insti 
tute.  She  loved  it.  It  exhilarated  her.  She  felt 
young,  and  free,,  and  rather  important.  The  sombre 
old  house  on  Prairie  ceased  to  dominate  her  for  the 
time.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  stay  down  for  lunch 
with  Emma  Barton — wise,  humourous,  understand 
ing  Emma  Barton.  Maybe  they  could  get  hold  of 
Winnie  Steppler,  too.  Then,  later,  she  might  prowl 
around  looking  at  the  new  cloth  dresses  for  spring. 

Well,  she  couldn't.     That  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

She  parked  the  electric  and  entered  the  grim 
black  pile  that  was  the  City  Hall  and  County  Build 
ing,  threaded  her  way  among  the  cuspidors  of  the 
dingy  entrance  hall,  stepped  out  of  the  elevator  on 
the  floor  that  held  Judge  Barton's  court :  the  Girls' 
Court.  The  attendant  at  the  door  knew  her.  There 
was  no  entering  Judge  Barton's  court  as  a  public 


190  THE  GIRLS 

place  of  entertainment.  In  the  ante-room  red-eyed 
girls  and  shawled  mothers  were  watching  the  closed 
door  in  mingled  patience  and  fear.  Girls.  Sullen 
girls,  bold  girls,  frightened  girls.  Girls  who  had 
never  heard  of  the  Ten  Commandments  and  who 
had  broken  most  of  them.  Girls  who  had  not 
waited  for  the  apple  of  life  to  drop  ripe  into  their 
laps  but  had  twisted  it  of!  the  tree  and  bitten  deep 
into  the  fruit  and  found  the  taste  of  gall  in  their 
mouths.  Tear-stained,  bedraggled,  wretched  girls ; 
defiant  girls ;  silk-clad,  contemptuous,  staring  girls. 
Girls  who  had  rehearsed  their  roles,  prepared  for 
stern  justice  in  uniform.  Girls  who  bristled  with 
resentment  against  life,  against  law,  against  ma 
ternal  authority.  They  did  not  suspect  how  com 
pletely  they  were  to  be  disarmed  by  a  small  woman 
with  a  misleadingly  mild  face,  graying  hair,  and 
eyes  that — well,  it  was  hard  to  tell  about  those  eyes. 
They  looked  at  you — they  looked  at  you  and  through 
you  .  .  .  What  was  that  you  had  planned  to  say 
.  .  .  what  was  that  you  had  .  .  .  Oh,,  for  God's 
sakes,  ma,  shut  up  your  crying!  Between  the  girls 
in  their  sleazy  silk  stockings  and  the  mothers  in  their 
shapeless  shawls  lay  the  rotten  root  of  the  trouble. 
New  America  and  the  Old  World,  out  of  sympathy 
with  each  other,  uncomprehending,  resentful.  The 
girls  in  the  outer  room  rustled,  and  twisted,  and 
jerked,  and  sobbed,  and  whispered,  and  shrugged, 


THE  GIRLS  191 

and  scowled;  and  stared  furtively  at  each  other. 
But  the  shawled  and  formless  older  women  stood 
or  sat  animal-like  in  their  patience,  their  eyes  on 
the  closed  door. 

Lottie  wondered  if  she  could  pick  Jennie  from 
among  them.  She  even  thought  of  asking  for  her, 
but  she  quickly  decided  against  that.  Better  to  see 
Emma  Barton  first. 

It  lacked  just  five  minutes  of  ten.  Lottie  nodded 
to  the  woman  who  guarded  the  door  and  passed 
through  the  little  room  in  which  Judge  Barton  held 
court,,  to  the  private  office  beyond.  Never  was  less 
official-looking  hall  of  justice  than  that  little  court 
room.  It  resembled  a  more  than  ordinarily  pleas 
ant  business  office.  A  long  flat  table  on  a  platform 
four  or  five  inches  above  the  floor.  Half  a  dozen 
chairs  ranged  about  the  wall.  A  vase  of  spring 
flowers — jonquils,  tulips,  mignonette — on  the  table. 
Not  a  carefully  planned  "woman's  touch/'  Some 
one  was  always  sending  flowers  to  Judge  Barton. 
She  was  that  kind  of  woman.  You  were  struck 
with  the  absence  of  official-looking  papers,  docu 
ments,  files.  All  the  paraphernalia  of  red  tape  was 
absent. 

Judge  Barton  sat  in  the  cubby-hole  of  an  office 
just  beyond  this,  a  girl  stenographer  at  her  elbow. 
Outside  the  great  window  the  City  Hall  pigeons 
strutted  and  purled.  Bright-eyed  and  alert  as  an 


192  THE  GIRLS 

early  robin,  the  judge  looked  up  as  Lottie  came  in. 
She  took  Lottie's  hand  in  her  own  firm  fingers. 

"Well !"  Then  they  smiled  at  each  other,  these 
two  women.  "You'll  stay  down  and  have  lunch 
with  me.  I've  the  whole  afternoon — Saturday." 

"I  can't." 

"Of  course  you  can.     Why  not?" 

"I've  got  to  be  home  by  noon  to  take  mother  to 
market  and  to " 

"It  sounds  like  nonsense  to  me,"  Emma  Barton 
said,  gently.  And,  somehow,  it  did  sound  like  non 
sense. 

Lottie  flushed  like  a  school-girl.  "I  suppose  it 

does "  she  broke  off,  abruptly.  "I  came  down 

to  talk  to  you  about  Jennie.  Jennie's  the  sister  of 
Belle's  housemaid,  Gussie,,  and  she's  in  trouble.  Her 
case  comes  up  before  you  this  morning." 

Emma  Barton's  eyes  travelled  swiftly  over  the 
charted  sheets  before  !her.  "Jennie?  Jennie? — 
Jeannette  Kromek?" 

"Jeannette." 

"I  see,"  said  Judge  Barton,  just  as  Lottie  had  be 
fore  her  in  Belle's  kitchen  that  morning.  She 
glanced  at  the  chart  of  Jennie's  case.  A  common 
enough  case  in  that  court.  She  listened  as  Lottie 
talked  briefly.  She  knew  the  Jennie  kind;  Jennie 
in  rebellion  against  a  treadmill  of  working  and  eat 
ing  and  sleeping.  Jennie,  the  grub,,  vainly  trying 


THE  GIRLS  193, 

to  transform  herself  into  Jeannette  the  butterfly.. 
Excitement,  life,,  admiration,  pretty  clothes,  "a 
chance."  That  was  what  the  Jeannettes  vaguely 
desired:  a  chance. 

Judge  Barton  did  not  waste  any  time  on  senti 
ment.  She  did  not  walk  to  the  window  and  gaze 
out  upon  the  great  gray  city  stretched  below.  She 
did  not  say,  "Poor  little  broken  butterfly."  She  had 
not  become  head  of  this  judicature  thus.  She  said, 
"The  world's  full  of  Jennie — Jeannettes.  I  wonder 
there  isn't  more  of  them."  The  soft  bright  eyes 
were  on  Lottie.  They  said,  "You're  one,  you 
know."  But  she  did  not  utter  the  thought  aloud. 
She  glanced  at  her  watch  then  (it  actually  hung 
from  an  old-fashioned  chatelaine  pinned  near  her 
right  shoulder),  rose  and  led  the  way  into  the  larger 
room,,  followed  by  Lottie  and  the  girl  stenographer. 
She  mounted  the  low  platform,  slipped  into  the  chair 
at  the  desk. 

She  had  placed  the  chart  of  Jennie's  case  upper 
most  on  the  table,  was  about  to  have  the  case  sum 
moned  when  the  door  flew  open  and  Winnie  Step- 
pier  entered.  Doors  always  flew  open  before 
Winnie's  entrance.  White-haired,  pink-cheeked  as 
a  girl,  looming  vast  and  imposing  in  her  blue  cloak 
and  gray  furs,  she  looked  more  the  grande  dame  on 
an  errand  of  mercy  than  a  newspaper  reporter  on 
the  job.  She  rarely  got  a  story  in  Judge  Barton's 


194  THE  GIRLS 

court  because  Judge  Barton's  girls'  names  were 
carefully  kept  out  of  the  glare  of  publicity.  The 
human  quality  in  the  place  drew  her ;  and  her  friend 
ship  and  admiration  for  Emma  Barton;  and  the 
off-chance.  There  might  be  a  story  for  her.  She 
ranged  the  city,  did  Winnie  Steppler,  for  her  stuff. 
Her  friends  were  firemen  and  policemen,  newsboys 
and  elevator  starters;  movie  ticket-sellers,  news 
stand  girls,  hotel  clerks,  lunch-room  waitresses, 
manicures,,  taxi-drivers,  street-sweepers,  doormen, 
waiters,  Greek  boot-blacks — all  that  vast  stratum  of 
submerged  servers  over  whom  the  flood  of  human 
ity  sweeps  in  a  careless  torrent  leaving  no  one  knows 
what  sediment  of  rich  knowledge. 

At  sight  of  Lottie,  Winnie  Steppler's  Irish  blue 
eyes  blazed.  She  affected  a  brogue,  inimitable. 
"Och,  but  you're  the  grand  sight  and  me  a-sickening 
for  ye  these  weeks  and  not  a  glimpse.  You'll  have 
lunch  with  me — you  and  Her  Honour  there." 

"I  can't,"  said  Lottie. 

"And  why  not,  then!" 

It  really  was  beginning  to  sound  a  little  foolish. 
Lottie  hesitated.  She  fidgeted  with  her  fingers,, 
looked  up  smiling  uncertainly.  "I've" — with  a 
rush — "I've  got  to  be  home  by  twelve  to  drive 
mother  to  market  and  to  the  West  Side." 

"Telephone  her.     Say  you  won't  be  home  till  two. 


THE  GIRLS  195 

It's  no  life-and-death  matter,  is  it — the  market  and 
the  West  Side?" 

Lottie  tried  to  picture  that  driving  force  at  home 
waiting  complacently  until  she  should  return  at  two. 
"Oh,  I  can't!  I  can't!" 

Winnie  Steppler,  the  world-wise,  stared  at  her  a 
moment  curiously.  There  had  been  a  note  resem 
bling  hysteria  in  Lottie's  voice.  "Why,  look  here, 
girl " 

"Order  in  the  court!"  said  Judge  Barton,  with 
mock  dignity.  But  she  meant  it.  It  was  ten 
o'clock.  Two  probation  officers  came  in.  A  bailiff 
opened  the  door  and  stuck  his  head  in.  Judge  Bar 
ton  nodded  to  him.  He  closed  the  door.  You  heard 
his  voice  in  the  outer  room.  "Jeannette  Kromek! 
Mrs.  Kromek!  Otto  Kromek!" 

A  girl  in  a  wrinkled  blue  cloth  dress,  a  black  vel 
vet  tarn  o'  shanter,  slippers  and  (significant  this) 
black  cotton  stockings.  At  sight  of  those  black 
cotton  stockings  Lottie  Payson  knew,  definitely, 
that  beneath  the  top  tawdriness  of  Jeannette  was 
Jennie,  sound  enough.  A  sullen,  lowering,  rather 
frightened  girl  of  seventeen.  Her  hair  was  bobbed. 
The  style  went  oddly  with  the  high-cheek-boned 
Slavic  face,  the  blunt-fingered  factory  hands. 
With  her  was  a  shawled  woman  who  might  have 
been  forty  or  sixty.  She  glanced  about  dartingly 
beneath  lowered  lids  with  quick  furtive  looks.  An 


196  THE  GIRLS 

animal,  trapped,  has  the  same  look  in  its  eyes.  The 
two  stood  at  the  side  of  the  table  facing  Judge 
Barton. 

"Where  is  Otto  Kromek?" 

"He  didn't  show  up,"  the  bailiff  reported. 

No  case,  then.  But  Judge  Barton  did  not  so 
state.  She  leaned  forward  a  little  toward  the  girl 
whose  face  was  blotched  and  swollen  with  weeping. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Jennie?" 

Jennie  set  her  jaw.  She  looked  down,  looked  up 
again.  The  brown  eyes  were  still  upon  her,  ques- 
tioningly.  "I " 

The  shawled  woman  plucked  at  the  girl's  skirt  and 
whispered  fiercely  in  her  own  tongue. 

"Le'  me  alone,"  hissed  the  girl,  and  jerked  away. 

Judge  Barton  turned  toward  the  woman.  "Mrs. 
Kromek,  just  stand  away  from  Jennie.  Let  her 
talk  to  me.  Afterward  you  can  talk." 

The  two  separated,  glaring. 

"Now  then,  Jennie,  how  did  it  all  happen?" 

The  girl  begins  to  speak.  The  older  woman 
edges  closer  again  to  catch  what  the  low  voice  says. 

"We  went  ridin'  with  a  couple  fellas." 

"Did  you  know  them?  Were  they  boys  you 
knew?"  * 

"No." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  go  riding  with  them, 
Jennie?" 


THE  GIRLS  197 

"We  was  walkin' " 

"We?" 

"Me  an'  my  girl  friend.  We  was  walkin'. 
These  fellas  was  driving  'round  slow.  We  seen 
'em.  An'  they  come  up  to  the  curb  where  we  was 
passin'  by  an'  asked  us  would  we  like  to  take  a 
ride.  Well,  we  didn't  have  nothin'  else  to  do  so " 

I-sez-to-him  and  he-sez-to-me.  The  drive.  Ter 
ror.  A  fight  in  the  car,  the  sturdy  girls  defending 
themselves  fiercely.  Home  safe  but  so  late  that  the 
usual  tirade  became  abuse.  They  had  said  things 
at  home  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  she'd  show'm.  She'd  run 
away.  She  had  taken  the  hundred  to  spite  him — 
Otto. 

"Why  did  you  go,,  Jennie?  You  knew,  didn't 
you?"  ' 

The  girl's  smouldering  resentment  flared  into 
open  hatred.  "It's  her.  She's  always  a-yellin'  at 
me.  They're  all  yellin'  all  the  time.  I  come  home 
from  work  and  right  away  they  jump  on  me.  Noth 
in'  I  do  ain't  right.  I'm  good  and  sick  of  it,  that's 

what.  Good  and  sick "  She  was  weeping 

again,  wildly,  unrestrainedly.  The  older  woman 
broke  into  a  torrent  of  talk  in  her  own  thick  tongue. 
She  grasped  the  girl's  arm.  Jennie  wrenched  her 
self  free.  "Yeh,  you !"  She  turned  again  to  Judge 
Barton,  the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  wipe  them  away.  The  Jennies 


198  THE  GIRLS 

of  Judge  Barton's  court,  so  prone  to  tears,,  were  usu 
ally  poorly  equipped  for  the  disposal  of  them. 

Emma  Barton  did  not  say,  "Don't  cry,  Jennie." 
Without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  girl  she  opened 
the  upper  right-hand  drawer  of  her  desk,  and  from 
a  neatly  stacked  pile  of  plain  white  handkerchiefs 
she  took  the  topmost  one,  shook  it  out  of  its  folds 
and  handed  it  wordlessly  to  Jennie.  As  wordlessly 
Jennie  took  it  and  wiped  her  streaming  eyes  and 
blew  her  nose,,  and  mopped  her  face.  Emma  Barton 
had  won  a  thousand  Jennies  with  a  thousand  neat 
white  handkerchiefs  extracted  in  the  nick  of  time 
from  that  upper  right-hand  drawer. 

"Now  then,,  Mrs.  Kromek.  What's  the  trouble 
between  you  and  Jennie  ?  Why  don't  you  get  along, 
you  two  ?" 

Mrs.  Kromek,  no  longer  furtive,  squared  herself 
to  state  her  grievance.  Hers  was  a  polyglot  but  pun 
gent  tongue.  She  made  plain  her  meaning.  Jennie 
was  a  bum,  a  no-good,  a  stuck-up.  The  house 
wasn't  clean  enough  for  Jennie.  Always  she  was 
washing.  Evenings  she  was  washing  herself  al 
ways  with  hot  water  it  was  enough  to  make  you 
sick.  And  Jennie  was  sassy  on  the  boarders. 

And,  "I  see,/'  said  Judge  Barton  encouragingly, 
at  intervals,  as  the  vituperative  flood  rolled  on.  "I 
see."  Jennie's  eyes,  round  with  hostility,  glared 
at  her  accuser  over  the  top  of  the  handkerchief. 


THE  GIRLS  199 

Finally,  when  the  poison  stream  grew  thinner,  trick 
led,,  showed  signs  of  stopping  altogether,  Judge 
Barton  beamed  understandingly  upon  the  vixenish 
Mrs.  Kromek.  "I  understand  perfectly  now.  Just 
wait  here,  Mrs.  Kromek.  Jennie,  come  with  me." 
She  beckoned  to  Lottie.  The  three  disappeared  into 
the  inner  office.  Judge  Barton  laid  a  hand  lightly 
on  the  girl's  shoulder.  "Now  then,  Jennie,  what 
would  you  like  to  do,  h'm?  Just  talk  to  me.  Tell 
me,  what  would  you  like  to  do?" 

Jennie's  hands  writhed  in  the  folds  of  her  skirt. 
She  twisted  her  fingers.  She  sobbed  final  dry, 
racking  sobs.  And  then  she  rolled  the  judicial  hand 
kerchief  into  a  tight,  damp,  hard  little  ball  and  began 
to  talk.  She  talked  as  she  had  never  talked  to  Ma 
Kromek.  Translated,  it  ran  thus: 

At  home  there  was  no  privacy.  The  house  was 
full  of  hulking  men;  pipe-smoke;  the  smell  of  food 
eternally  stewing  on  the  stove;  shrill  or  guttural 
voices;  rough  jests.  Book-reading,  bathing,  reti 
cence  on  Jennie's  part  were  all  shouted  down  as  at 
tempts  at  being  "toney."  When  she  came  home 
from,  the  factory  at  night,  tired,,  nerve-worn,  jaded, 
the  house  was  as  cluttered  and  dirty  as  it  had  been 
when  she  left  it  in  the  morning.  The  mother  went 
with  the  boarders  (this  Jennie  told  as  evenly  and 
dispassionately  as  the  rest).  She  had  run  away 
from  home  after  the  last  hideous  family  fracas. 


200  THE  GIRLS 

She  had  taken  the  money  in  a  spirit  of  hatred  and 
revenge.  She'd  do  it  again.  If  they  had  let  her 
go  to  school,  as  she  had  wanted  to — she  used  to  talk 
English  all  right,  like  the  teacher — but  you  heard 
the  other  kind  of  talk  around  the  house  and  at  the 
factory  and  pretty  soon  you  couldn't  talk  the  right 
way.  They  made  fun  of  you  if  you  did.  A  busi 
ness  college  course.  That  was  what  she  wanted. 
She  could  spell.  At  school  she  could  spell  better 
than  anyone  in  the  room.  Only  they  had  taken  her 
out  in  the  sixth  grade. 

What  to  do  with  Jennie? 

The  two  older  women  looked  at  each  other  over 
Jennie's  head.  The  course  in  stenography  could 
be  managed  simply  enough.  Judge  Barton  met 
such  problems  hourly.  But  what  to  do  with  Jennie 
in  the  meantime?  She  shrank  from,  consigning  to 
a  detention  home  or  a  Girls'  Refuge  this  fundamen 
tally  sound  and  decent  young  creature. 

Suddenly,  "I'll  take  her,"  said  Lottie. 

"How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I'll  take  her  home  with  me.  We've  got  rooms 
and  rooms  in  that  barracks  of  ours.  The  whole 
third  floor.  She  can  stay  for  awhile.  Anyway, 
she  can't  go  back  to  that  house." 

The  girl  sat  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  un 
comprehending.  Her  hands  were  clutching  each 
other  tightly.  Emma  Barton  turned  to  her.  "What 


THE  GIRLS  201 

do  you  say,  Jennie?  Would  you  like  to  go  home 
with  Miss  Payson  here?  Just  for  awhile,  until  we 
think  of  something  else?  I  think  we  can  manage 
the  business  college  course/' 

The  girl  seemed  hardly  to  comprehend.  Lottie 
leaned  toward  her.  "Would  you  like  to  come  to 
my  house,  Jeannette?"  And  at  that  the  first  stab 
of  misgiving  darted  through  Lottie.  "My  house?" 
She  thought  of  her  mother. 

"Yes,"  answered  Jennie  with  the  ready  acquies 
cence  of  her  class.  "Yes." 

And  so  it  was  settled,  simply.  Ma  Kromek  ac 
cepted  the  decision  with  dumb  passiveness.  One  of 
the  brothers  would  bring  Jennie's  clothes  to  the 
Prairie  Avenue  house.  Jennie  had  only  spent  half 
of  the  stolen  hundred.  The  unspent  half  she  had 
returned  to  him.  The  rest  she  would  pay  back, 
bit  by  bit,,  out  of  her  earnings.  Winnie  Steppler 
bemoaned  her  inability  to  make  a  feature  story  of 
Jennie — Jeannette.  Lottie  smiled  at  Jennie,  and 
propelled  her  down  the  corridor  and  into  the  ele 
vator,  to  the  street.  In  her  well-fitting  tailor  suit, 
and  her  good  furs  and  her  close  little  velvet  hat,  she 
looked  the  Lady  Bountiful.  The  girl,  shabby,  tear- 
stained,,  followed.  Lottie  was  racked  with  horrid 
misgivings.  Why  had  she  suggested  it !  What  a 
mad  idea!  Her  mother!  She  tried  to  put  the 
thought  out  of  her  mind.  She  couldn't  face  it. 


202  THE  GIRLS 

And  all  the  while  she  was  unlocking  the  door  of  the 
electric,  settling  herself  in  the  seat,  holding  out  a 
hand  to  help  Jennie's  entrance.  The  watery  sun 
shine  of  the  early  morning  had  been  a  false  prom 
ise.  It  was  raining  again. 

Out  of  the  welter  of  State  Street  and  Wabash, 
and  into  the  clear  stretch  of  Michigan  once  more 
she  turned  suddenly  to  look  at  Jennie  and  found 
Jennie  looking  fixedly  at  her.  Jennie's  eyes  did  not 
drop  shiftily  at  this  unexpected  encounter.  That 
was  reassuring. 

"Gussie  works  at  my  sister's/'  she  told  the  girl, 
bluntly.  "That's  how  I  happened  to  be  in  court 
this  morning  when  your  case  came  up." 

"Oh,"  said  Jennie,,  accepting  this  as  of  a  piece 
with  all  the  rest  of  the  day's  happenings.  Then, 
after  a  moment,  "Is  that  why  you  said  you'd  take 
me?  Gussie?" 

"No,  I  didn't  even  think  of  Gussie  at  the  time.  I 
just  thought  of  you.  I  didn't  even  think  of  myself." 
She  smiled  a  little  grimly.  "I'm  going  to  call  you 
Jeannette,  shall  I?' 

"Yeh.    Jennie's  so  homely.    What's  your  name?" 

"Lottie." 

Jeannette  politely  made  no  comment.  Lottie 
found  herself  defending  the  name.  "It's  short  for 
Charlotte,  you  know.  My  Aunt  Charlotte  lives 


THE  GIRLS  203 

with  us.  We'd  get  mixed  up.  My  niece  is  named 
Charlotte,,  too.  We  call  her  Charley." 

Jeannette  nodded  briskly.  "I  know.  I  seen  her 
once.  I  was  at  Gussie's.  Gussie  told  me.  She's 
awful  pretty  .  .  .  She's  got  it  swell  .  .  .  You  like 
my  hair  this  way?"  She  whisked  off  the  dusty  vel 
vet  tan. 

"I  think  I'd  like  it  better  the  other  way.     Long." 

"I'll  let  it  grow.  I  can  do  it  in  a  net  so  it  looks 
like  long."  They  rode  along  in  silence. 

What  to  say  to  her  mother !  She  glanced  at  her 
watch.  Eleven.  Well,  at  least  she  wasn't  late. 
They  were  turning  into  Prairie  at  Sixteenth.  She 
was  terrified  at  what  she  had  done ;  furious  that  this 
should  be  so.  She  argued  fiercely  with  herself, 
maintaining  all  the  while  her  outwardly  composed 
and  dignified  demeanour.  "Don't  be  a  silly  fool. 
You're  a  woman  of  thirty-two — almost  thirty-three. 
You  ought  to  be  at  the  head  of  your  own  house 
hold.  If  you  were,  this  is  what  you'd  have  done. 
Well,  then!"  But  she  was  sick  with  apprehension, 
even  while  she  despised  herself  because  it  was  so. 

Jeannette  was  speaking  again.  "The  houses 
around  here  are  swell,  ain't  they?" 

"Yes,"  Lottie  agreed,  absently.  Her  own  house 
was  a  block  away. 

Jeannette's  mind  grasshoppered  to  another  topic. 
"I  can  talk  good  if  you  keep  telling  me.  I  forget. 


204  THE  GIRLS 

Home  and  in  the  works  everybody  talks  bum  Eng 
lish.  I  learn  quick." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Lottie.  "I  shouldn't  say  'swell' 
nor  'ain't'." 

Jeannette  thought  a  moment.  "The — houses — 
around — here — are — grand — are — they — not?" 

Suddenly  Lottie  reached  over  and  covered  the 
girl's  hand  with  her  own. 

Jeannette  smiled  back  at  her.  She  thought  her 
a  fine  looking  middle-aged  person.  Not  a  very  swell 
dresser  but  you  could  see  she  had  class. 

"Here  we  are!"  said  Lottie  aloud.  The  direct, 
clear-headed  woman  who  had  acted  with  authority 
and  initiative  only  an  hour  before  in  the  court  room, 
was  now  thinking,  "Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear!"  in  antici- 
pative  agony.  She  stepped  out  of  the  electric.  "Gus- 
sie'll  be  glad." 

"Yeh — Gussie !"  Jeannette's  tone  was  not  with 
out  venom.  "She's  her  own  boss.  She's  got  it 
good.  Sometimes  for  a  whole  month  she  didn't 
come  home."  She  stared  curiously  at  the  grim  old 
Prairie  Avenue  house.  It  was  raining  hard  now. 
Lottie  glanced  quickly  up  at  the  parlour  window. 
Sometimes  her  mother  stood  there,  watching  for 
her,  impatient  of  any  waiting.  She  was  not  there 
now.  She  opened  the  front  door,  the  two  entered 
• — Jeannette  the  braver  of  the  two. 

"Yoo-hoo !"  called  Lottie  with  an  airy  assumption 


THE  GIRLS  205 

of  cheeriness.  Jeannette  stood  looking  up  and 
down  the  long  dim  hallway  with  wide  ambient  eyes. 
There  was  no  answer  to  Lottie's  call.  She  sped 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Where's  mother?" 

"She  ban  gone  out." 

"Out!     Where?     It's  raining.     Pouring!" 

"She  ban  gone  out." 

Even  in  her  horror  at  the  thought  of  her  rheu 
matism-stricken  mother  in  the  downpour  she  was 
conscious  of  a  feeling  of  relief.  It  was  the  relief 
a  condemned  murderer  feels  whose  hanging  is  post 
poned  from  to-day  until  to-morrow. 

She  came  back  to  Jeannette.  Oh,  dear!  "Come 
upstairs  with  me,,  Jeannette."  Lottie  ran  up  the 
stairs  quickly,  Jeannette  at  her  heels.  She  went 
straight  to  Aunt  Charlotte's  room.  Aunt  Charlotte 
was  asleep  in  her  old  plush  armchair  by  the  window. 
She  often  napped  like  that  in  the  morning.  She 
dropped  off  to  sleep  easily,  sometimes  dozing  al 
most  immediately  after  breakfast.  It  was  light, 
fitful  sleep.  She  started  up,  wide  awake,  as  Lottie 
came  in. 

"Where's  mother?" 

Aunt  Charlotte  smiled  grimly.  "She  bounced 
out  the  minute  you  left." 

"But  where?" 

"Her  rents  and  the  marketing." 


206  THE  GIRLS 

"But  it's  raining.  She  can't  be  out  in  the  rain. 
Way  over  there!" 

"She  said  she  was  going  to  take  the  street  car 
.  .  .  What  time  is  it,  Lottie?  I  must  have  .  .  . 
Who's  that  in  the  hall  ?"  She  stopped  in  the  mid 
dle  of  a  yawn. 

"Jeannette,  come  here.  This  is  Jeannette,  Aunt 
Charlotte.  Gussie's  sister.  You  know — Gussie 
who  works  for  Belle.  I've  brought  Jeannette  home 
with  me." 

"That's  nice/'  said  Aunt  Charlotte,  pleasantly. 

"To  live,  I  mean." 

"Oh !     Does  your  mother  know  ?" 

"No.  I  just — I  just  brought  her  home."  Lottie 
put  a  hand  on  Aunt  Charlotte's  withered  cheek. 
She  was  terribly  near  to  tears.  "Dear  Aunt  Char 
lotte,,  won't  you  take  care  of  Jeannette;  I'm  going 
out  after  mother.  Show  her  her  room — upstairs; 
you  know.  And  give  her  some  hot  lunch.  On  the 
third  floor  you  know — the  room." 

Jeannette  spoke  up,  primly.  "I  don't  want  to 
make  nobody  trouble." 

"Trouble!"  echoed  Aunt  Charlotte.  She  rose 
spryly  to  her  feet,  asked  no  explanation.  "You 
come  with  me,  Jeannette.  My,  my!  How  pretty 
your  hair  is  cut  short  like  that.  So  Gussie  is  your 
sister,  h'm?  Well,  well."  She  actually  pinched 
Jeannette's  tear-stained  cheek. 


THE  GIRLS  207 

"The  dear  thing !"  Lottie  thought,,  harassed  as  she 
was.  "The  darling  old  thing!"  And  then,  sud 
denly:  "She  should  have  been  my  mother." 

Lottie  ran  downstairs  and  into  the  electric.  She 
jerked  its  levers  so  that  the  old  vehicle  swayed  and 
cavorted  on  the  slippery  pavement. 

She  would  drive  straight  over  to  the  one-story 
buildings  on  west  Halsted,  near  Eighteenth.  Her 
mother  usually  went  there  first.  It  was  a  Polish  set 
tlement.  Mrs.  Payson  owned  a  row  of  six  stores 
occupied  by  a  tobacconist,  a  shoemaker,  a  delica 
tessen,  a  Chinese  laundry,  a  grocer,  a  lunch  room. 
She  collected  the  rents  herself,  let  out  bids  for  re 
pairs,  kept  her  own  books.  Lottie  had  tried  to 
help  with  these  last  but  she  was  not  good  at  ac 
counts.  Unless  carefully  watched  she  mixed  things 
up  hopelessly.  Mrs.  Payson  juggled  account  books, 
ledgers,  check  books,,  rental  lists  like  an  expert  ac 
countant.  Eighteenth  Street,  as  Lottie  drove  across 
it  now,  was  a  wallow  of  liquid  mud,  rain,  drays, 
spattered  yellow  street  cars,  dim  drab-looking  shops. 
The  slippery  car  tracks  were  a  menace  to  drivers. 
She  had  to  go  slowly.  The  row  of  Halsted  Street 
buildings  reached  at  last,  Lottie  ran  in  one  store  and 
out  the  other." 

"Is  my  mother  here?" 

"She's  gone." 

"Has  Mrs.  Payson  been  here?" 


208  THE  GIRLS 

"Long.     She  left  an  hour  ago." 

There  were  the  other  buildings  on  Forty-third 
Street.  But  she  couldn't  have  gone  way  up  there, 
Lottie  told  herself.  But  she  decided  to  try  them. 
On  the  way  she  stopped  at  the  house.  Her  mother 
had  not  yet  come  in.  She  went  on  up  to  Forty- 
third,  the  spring  rain  lashing  the  glassed-in  hood 
of  the  electric.  Yes,  her  mother  had  been  there  and 
gone.  Lottie  was  conscious  of  a  little  hot  flame 
of  anger  rising,  rising  in  her.  It  seemed  to  drum 
in  her  ears.  It  made  her  eyelids  smart  and  sting. 
She  set  her  teeth.  She  swung  the  car  over  to  Gus's 
market  on  Forty-third.  Her  hands  gripped  the  lev 
ers  so  that  the  ungloved  knuckles  showed  white. 

"It's  a  damned  shame,  that's  what  it  is!"  she  said,, 
aloud;  and  sobbed  a  little.  "It's  a  damned  shame, 
that's  what  it  is.  She  could  have  waited.  It's  just 
pure  meanness.  She  could  have  waited.  I  wish 
I  was  dead!" 

It  was  as  though  the  calm,  capable,  resourceful 
woman  of  the  ten  o'clock  court  room  scene  had  never 
been. 

"Gus,  has  my  mother ?" 

"She's  just  went.  You  can  ketch  her  yet.  I  told 
her  to  wait  till  it  let  up  a  little.  She  was  wetter'n 
a  drowned  rat.  But  not  her!  You  know  your 
ma!  Wait  nothin'." 

Lottie  headed  toward  Indiana  Avenue  and  the 


THE  GIRLS  209 

car  line.  Her  eyes  searched  the  passers-by  beneath 
their  dripping  umbrellas.  Then  she  spied  her,  a 
draggled  black-garbed  figure,  bundle  laden,  wait 
ing  on  the  corner  for  her  car.  Her  left  arm — the  bad 
one — was  held  stiffly  folded  in  front  of  her,  close  to 
her  body.  That  meant  pain.  Her  shoulders  were 
hunched  a  little.  Her  black  hat  was  slightly  askew. 
Lottie  noted,  with  the  queer  faculty  one  has  for  de 
tail  at  such  times,  that  her  colour  was  slightly  yellow. 
But  as  she  peered  up  the  street  in  vain  hope  of  an  ap 
proaching  street  car,  her  glance  was  as  alert  as 
ever.  She  walked  forward  toward  the  curb  to  scan 
the  empty  car  tracks.  Lottie  noticed  her  feet.  In 
the  way  she  set  them  down;  in  their  appearance  of 
ankle-weakness  and  a  certain  indescribable  stiffness 
that  carried  with  it  a  pathetic  effort  at  spryness 
there  was.,  somehow,  a  startling  effect  of  age,  of 
feebleness.  She  toed  in  a  little  with  weariness. 
A  hot  blur  sprang  to  Lottie's  eyes.  She  drew  up 
sharply  at  the  curb,  flung  open  the  door,  was  out, 
had  seized  the  bundles  and  was  propelling  her 
mother  toward  the  electric  almost  before  Mrs.  Pay- 
son  had  realised  her  presence. 

"Mother  dear,  why  didn't  you  wait !" 

For  a  moment  it  looked  as  if  Mrs.  Payson  meant 

to   resist  stubbornly.     She  even  jerked  her   arm 

away,  childishly.     But  strong  as  her  will  was,  her 

aching  body  protested  still  more  strongly.     Lottie 


2io  THE  GIRLS 

hoisted  her  almost  bodily  into  the  electric.  She 
looked  shrunken  and  ocherous  as  she  huddled  in  a 
corner.  But  her  face  was  set,,  implacable.  The 
car  sped  down  the  rain-swept  street.  Lottie  glanced 
sideways  at  her  mother.  Her  eyes  were  closed. 
They  seemed  strangely  deep-set  in  their  sockets. 

"Oh,  mama "  Lottie's  voice  broke;  the  tears, 

hot,  hurt,  repentent,  coursed  down  her  cheeks — 
"why  did  you  do  it !  You  knew — you  knew " 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  opened  her  eyes.  "You  said 
Belle's  hired  girl's  sister  was  more  important  than 
I,,  didn't  you?  Well!" 

"But  you  knew  I  didn't "  she  stopped  short. 

She  couldn't  say  she  hadn't  meant  it.  She  had. 
She  couldn't  explain  to  her  mother  that  she  had 
meant  that  her  effort  to  help  Jeannette  was  her  pro 
test  against  stifled  expression.  Her  mother  would 
not  have  understood.  It  sounded  silly  and  preten 
tious  even  in  her  unspoken  thought.  But  deeper 
than  this  deprecatory  self -consciousness  was  a  new 
and  growing  consciousness  of  Self. 

She  remembered  Jeannette;  Jeannette  installed 
in  the  third  floor  room,  a  member  of  the  household. 
At  the  thought  of  breaking  the  news  of  her  presence 
to  her  mother  Lottie  felt  a  wild  desire  to  giggle. 
It  was  a  task  too  colossal,  too  hopeless  for  serious 
ness.  You  had  to  tackle  it  smilingly  or  go  down  to 
defeat  at  once.  Lottie  braced  herself  for  the  effort. 


THE  GIRLS  211 

She  told  herself,  dramatically,  that  if  Jeannette 
went  she,  too,,  would  go. 

"I  brought  Jeannette  home  with  me." 

"Who?" 

"Jeannette — Gussie's  sister.  The  one  who's  had 
trouble  with  the  family." 

"Home!     What  for!" 

"She's — she's  a  nice  little  thing,  and  bright. 
There  wasn't  any  place  to  send  her.  We've  got  so 
much  room." 

"You  must  be  crazy." 

"Are  you  going  to  turn  her  out  into  the  storm, 
mom,  like  the  girl  in  the  melodrama?" 

Mrs.  Payson  was  silent  a  moment.  Then,  "Does 
she  know  anything  about  housework?  Belle's  al 
ways  saying  her  Gussie's  such  a  treasure.  I'm 
about  sick  of  that  Hulda.  Wastes  more  every  week 
than  we  eat.  I  don't  see  what  they  do  with  it — 
these  girls.  If  we  used  a  pound  of  butter  this  last 
week  we  used  five  and  I  hardly  touch 

"Jeannette  doesn't  want  to  do  housework.  She 
wants  to  go  to  business  college." 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you're  running  a  reform 
school." 

But  she  made  no  further  protest  now.  Lottie, 
peeling  off  her  mother's  wet  clothing  as  soon  as 
they  entered  the  house,  pleaded  with  her  to  go  to  bed. 

She  was  startled  when  her  mother  agreed.     Mrs. 


212  THE  GIRLS 

Payson  had  always  said,  "When  I  go  to  bed  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  you  can  know  I'm  sick/'  Now 
she  crept  stiffly  between  the  covers  of  her  big  old- 
fashioned  walnut  bed  with  a  groan  that  she  tried  to 
turn  into  a  cough.  An  hour  later  they  sent  for  the 
doctor.  An  acute  arthritis  attack.  Lottie  re 
proached  herself  grimly,  unsparingly. 

"I'll  get  up  around  four  o'clock,"  Mrs.  Payson 
said.  "You  don't  find  me  staying  in  bed.  Belle 
does  enough  of  that  for  the  whole  family."  At  four 
she  said,  "I'll  get  up  in  time  for  dinner  .  .  . 
Where's  that  girl  ?  Where's  that  girl  that  was  so 
important,,  h'm?  I  want  to  see  her." 

She  was  in  bed  for  a  week.  Lottie  covered  her 
self  with  reproaches. 


CHAPTER  XI 

NO  one  quite  knew  when  or  how  Jeannette  had 
become  indispensable  to  the  Payson  house 
hold;  but  she  had.  Most  of  all  had  she  become  in 
dispensable  to  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson.  Between  the 
two  there  existed  a  lion-and-mouse  friendship. 
Jeannette's  ebullient  spirits  had  not  undergone  years 
of  quenching  from  the  acid  stream  of  Mrs.  Payson's 
criticism.  Jeannette's  perceptions  and  valuations 
were  the  straightforward  simple  peasant  sort,  un 
hampered  by  fine  distinctions  or  involved  reasoning. 
To  her  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  was  not  a  domineering 
and  rather  terrible  person  whose  word  was  law  and 
whose  will  was  adamant,  but  a  fretful,  funny,  and 
rather  bossy  old  woman  who  generally  was  wrong. 
Jeannette  was  immensely  fond  of  her  and  did  not 
take  her  seriously  for  a  moment.  About  the  house 
Jeannette  was  as  handy  as  a  man.  And  this  was 
a  manless  household.  She  could  conquer  a  stub 
born  window-shade;  adjust  a  loose  castor  in  one 
of  the  bulky  old  chairs  or  bedsteads;  drive  a  nail; 
put  up  a  shelf;  set  a  mouse-trap. 

In  the  very  beginning  she  and  Mrs.  Payson  had 

213 


214  THE  GIRLS 

come  to  grips.  Mrs.  Payson's  usual  attitude  of 
faultfinding  and  intolerance  had  brought  about  the 
situation.  Jeannette  had  rebelled  at  once. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  leave  to-day/'  she  had  said. 
"I'm  going  back  to  the  factory." 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  have  nobody  giving  me  board  and  room 
for  nothing.  I  always  paid  for  what  I  got."  She 
began  to  pack  her  scant  belongings  in  the  little  room 
on  the  third  floor  next  to  Hulda's.  A  council  was 
summoned.  It  was  agreed  that  Jeannette  should 
help  with  the  household  tasks ;  assist  Hulda  with  the 
dishes ;  flip-flop  the  mattresses ;  clean  the  silver,  per 
haps.  This  silver-cleaning  was  one  of  Mrs.  Pay- 
son's  fixed  ideas.  It  popped  into  her  mind  when 
ever  she  saw  Hulda  momentarily  idle.  Hulda  did 
endless  yards  of  coarse  and  hideous  tatting  and 
crocheting  intended  ultimately  for  guimpes,,  edg 
ings,  bands  and  borders  on  nightgowns,  corset  cov 
ers,  and  pillow  slips.  Pressed,  she  admitted  an 
Oscar  in  the  offing.  She  had  mounds  of  stout  un 
derwear,  crochet-edged,  in  her  queer  old-world 
trunk.  When,  in  a  leisure  hour,  she  sat  in  her  room 
or  in  the  orderly  kitchen  she  was  always  busy  with 
a  gray  and  grimy  ball  of  this  handiwork.  Mrs. 
Payson  would  slam  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen. 
"There  she  sits,  doing  nothing.  Crocheting!" 

"But  mother,"  Lottie  would  say,  "her  work's  all 


THE  GIRLS  215 

done.  The  kitchen's  like  a  pin.  She  cleaned  the 
whole  front  of  the  house  to-day.  It  isn't  time  to 
start  dinner." 

"Let  her  clean  the  silver,  then." 

Jeannette  ate  her  meals  with  Hulda  and  before 
a  week  had  passed  she  had  banished  the  grubby 
and  haphazard  feeding  off  one  end  of  the  kitchen 
table.  She  got  hold  of  a  rickety  old  table  in  the 
basement,  straightened  its  wobbly  legs,  painted  it 
white,  and  set  it  up  against  the  kitchen  wall  under 
the  window  facing  the  back  yard.  In  a  pantry 
drawer  she  found  a  faded  lunch  cloth  of  the  Jap 
anese  variety,  with  bluebirds  on  it.  This  she  spread 
for  their  meals.  They  had  proper  knives,  forks, 
and  spoons.  The  girl  was  friendly,  good-natured, 
helpful.  Hulda  could  not  resent  her — even  wel 
comed  her  companionship  in  that  rather  grim 
household.  Hulda  showed  Jeannette  her  dream- 
book  without  which  no  Swedish  houseworker  can 
exist;  told  her  her  dreams  in  detail.  "It  vos  like  I 
vos  walking  and  yet  I  didn't  come  nowheres.  It 
seems  like  I  vos  in  Chicago  and  same  time  it  vos 
old  country  where  I  ban  come  from  and  all  the 
flowers  vos  blooming  in  fields  and  all  of  sudden  a 

old  man  comes  walking  and  I  look  and  it  vos " 

etc.,  ad  lib. 

Jeannette's  business  college  hours  were  from  nine 
to  four.  She  went  downtown  in  one  of  Charley's 


216  THE  GIRLS 

straight  smart  tailor  suits,,  revamped,  and  a  sailor 
with  an  upturned  brim  that  gave  her  face  a  piquant 
look.  She  did  not  seem  to  care  much  for  what  she 
called  "the  fellas."  Perhaps  her  searing  experience 
of  the  automobile  ride  had  scarred  that  side  of  her. 
Lottie  encouraged  her  to  bring  her  "boy  friends" 
to  the  house,  but  Jeannette  had  not  yet  taken  advan 
tage  of  the  offer.  One  day,  soon  after  her  induc 
tion  into  the  Prairie  Avenue  household,  she  had 
turned  her  attention  to  the  electric.  Lottie  had  just 
come  in  from  an  errand  with  Mrs.  Payson.  Jean 
nette  waylaid  her. 

"Listen.  If  you  would  learn  me  to — huh  ?  oh — 
teach  me  to  run  that  thing  you  ride  around  in,  I 
bet  I  could  catch  on  quick — quickly.  Then  I  could 
take  your  ma  around  Saturday  mornings  when  I 
ain't  at  school ;  and  evenings,  and  you  wouldn't  have 
to,  see?  Will  you?" 

With  the  magic  adaptability  of  youth  she  learned 
to  drive  with  incredible  ease.  She  had  no  nerves ; 
a  sense  of  the  road;  an  eye  for  distances.  After 
she  had  mastered  the  old  car's  idiosyncrasies  she 
became  adept  at  it.  She  had  a  natural  mechanical 
sense,  and  after  one  or  two  encounters  with  the 
young  man  from  the  filite  Garage  the  electric's  mo 
tive  powers  were  noticeably  improved.  Often,  now, 
it  was  Jeannette  who  drove  Mrs.  Payson  to  her 
buildings  on  the  West  Side,  or  to  her  appointments 


THE  GIRLS  217 

with  contractors,  plumbers,  carpenters,  and  the  like. 
Heretofore,,  on  such  errands,  Mrs.  Payson  had  al 
ways  insisted  that  Lottie  wait  in  the  electric  at  the 
curb.  Seated  thus,  Lottie  would  watch  her  mother 
with  worried  anxious  eyes  as  she  whisked  in  and 
out  of  store  doors,  alleys,  and  basements  followed 
by  a  heavy-footed  workman  or  contractor  whose 
face  grew  more  sullen  and  resentful  each  time  it 
appeared  around  a  corner.  Mrs.  Payson's  voice 
came  floating  back  to  Lottie.  "Now  what's  the  best 
you'll  do  on  that  job.  Remember,  I'll  have  a  good 
deal  of  work  later  in  the  year  if  you'll  do  this  reason 
ably." 

Now  Jeannette  calmly  followed  Mrs.  Payson  in 
her  tour  of  inspection.  Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Payson 
actually  consulted  her  about  this  fence  or  that  floor 
or  partition.  The  girl  was  good  at  figures,  too;  a 
natural  aptitude  for  mathematics. 

Lottie  found  herself  possessed  of  occasional  lei 
sure.  She  could  spend  a  half -day  in  the  country. 
She  could  lunch  in  the  park  and  stroll  over  to  the 
Wooded  Island  to  watch  and  wonder  at  the  budding 
marvel  of  trees  and  shrubs  and  bushes.  She  even 
thought,  boldly,  of  getting  a  Saturday  job  of  some 
sort— perhaps  in  connection  with  Judge  Barton's 
court,  but  hesitated  to  appropriate  Jeannette's  time 
permanently  thus.  The  atmosphere  of  the  old 
Prairie  Avenue  home  was  less  turbid,  somehow. 


218  THE  GIRLS 

Jeannette  was  a  dash  of  clear  cold  water  in  the 
muddy  sediment  of  their  existence.  Sometimes  the 
thought  came  to  Lottie  that  she  hadn't  been  needed 
in  the  household  after  all.  That  is,  she — Lottie 
Payson — to  the  exclusion  of  anyone  else.  Anyone 
else  would  have  done  as  well.  She  had  merely  been 
the  person  at  hand.  Looking  back  on  the  past  ten 
years  she  hated  to  believe  this.  If  she  had  merely 
been  made  use  of  thus,  then  those  ten  years  had 
been  wasted,  thrown  away,  useless — she  put  the 
thought  out  of  her  mind  as  morbid.  Sometimes, 
too,  of  late,  Lottie  took  a  hasty  fearful  glance  into 
the  future  and  there  saw  herself  a  septuagenarian 
like  Aunt  Charlotte;  living  out  her  life  with  Belle. 
"No!  No!  No!"  protested  a  voice  within  her  ris 
ing  to  a  silent  shriek.  "No!" 

Lottie  was  thirty-three  the  last  week  in  April. 
"Now  Lottie!"  her  mother's  friends  said  to  her, 
wagging  a  chiding  forefinger,  "you're  not  going  to 
let  your  little  niece  get  ahead  of  you,  are  you!" 

She  rarely  saw  the  Girls  now.  She  heard  that 
Beck  Schaefer  had  taken  to  afternoon  tea  dancing. 
She  was  seen  daily  at  hotel  tea  rooms  in  company 
with  pallid  and  incredibly  slim  youths  of  the  lizard 
type,  their  hair  as  glittering  as  their  boots;  lynx- 
eyed;  exhaling  a  last  hasty  puff  of  cigarette  smoke 
as  they  rose  from  the  table  for  the  next  dance; 
inhaling  a  grateful  lungful  before  they  so  much  as 


THE  GIRLS  219 

sat  down  again  after  that  dance  was  finished. 
They  wore  very  tight  pants  and  slim-waisted  coats, 
and  their  hats  came  down  over  their  ears  as  if  they 
were  too  big  for  their  heads.  Beck,,  smelling  ex 
pensively  of  L'Origon  and  wearing  very  palpable 
slippers  and  stockings  was  said  to  pay  the  checks 
proffered  by  the  waiter  at  the  close  of  these  after 
noons.  Lottie's  informant  further  confided  to  her 
that  Beck  was  known  in  tea-dance  circles  as  The 
.Youth's  Companion. 

The  last  week  in  April  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  went 
to  French  Lick  Springs  with  Belle — Mrs.  Payson 
for  her  rheumatism,,  Belle  for  her  digestive  trouble. 
Henry,  looking  more  worried  and  distrait  than  ever, 
was  to  follow  them  at  the  end  of  the  week.  You 
rarely  heard  his  big  booming  laugh  now.  Mrs. 
Payson  and  her  daughter  Belle  had  never  before 
gone  away  together.  Always  it  had  been  Lottie 
who  had  accompanied  her  mother.  Lottie  was 
rather  apprehensive  about  the  outcome  of  the  prox 
imity  of  the  two.  Belle  did  not  appear  to  relish 
the  prospect  particularly;  but  she  said  she  needed 
the  cure,  and  Henry  had  finally  convinced  her  of 
the  utter  impossibility  of  his  going.  He  was  rather 
alarmingly  frank  about  it.  "Can't  afford  it,  Belle/' 
he  said,  "and  that's  the  God's  truth.  Business  is 
— well,  there  isn't  any,  that's  all.  You  need  the 
rest  and  all  and  I  want  you  to  go.  I'll  try  to  come 


220  THE  GIRLS 

down  for  Saturday  and  Sunday  but  don't  count 
on  me.     I  may  have  to  go  to  New  York  any  day 


now." 


He  did  leave  for  New  York  that  week,  before  the 
French  Lick  trip.  Lottie  and  Charley  took  them 
down  to  the  station  in  the  Kemps'  big  car  with  the 
expert  Charley  at  the  wheel.  Mrs.  Payson  kept 
up  a  steady  stream  of  admonition,  reminder,  direc 
tion,  caution,  advice.  The  house  was  to  undergo 
the  April  semiannual  cleaning  during  her  absence. 

"Call  up  Amos  again  about  the  rugs  and  mat 
tresses  ...  in  the  yard,  remember ;  and  you've  got 
to  watch  him  every  minute  .  .  .  every  inch  of  the 
woodwork  with  warm  water — not  hot!  ...  a  lit 
tle  ammonia  .  .  .  the  backs  of  the  pictures  .  .  . 
a  pot-roast  and  cut  it  up  cold  for  the  cleaning  wom 
an's  lunch  and  give  her  plenty  of  potatoes  .  .  .  the 
parlour  curtains  .  .  ." 

The  train  was  gone.  Lottie  and  Charley  stood 
looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment,,  wordlessly. 
They  burst  into  rather  wild  laughter.  Then  they 
embraced.  People  in  the  station  must  have  thought 
one  of  them  a  traveller  just  returned  from  afar. 
They  clasped  hands  and  raced  for  the  car. 

"Let's  go  for  a  drive,"  said  Charley.  It  was  ten- 
thirty  at  night. 

"All  right,"  agreed  Lottie.  Charley  swung  the 
car  back  into  Michigan,  then  up  Michigan  headed 


THE  GIRLS  221 

north.  The  air  was  deliciously  soft  and  balmy  for 
April  in  Chicago.  They  whisked  up  Lake  Shore 
Drive  and  into  Lincoln  Park.  Lottie  was  almost 
ashamed  of  the  feeling  of  freedom,  of  relaxation, 
of  exaltation  that  flooded  her  whole  being.  She 
felt  alive,  and  tingling  and  light.  She  was  smil 
ing  unconsciously.  On  the  way  back  Charley  drew 
up  at  the  curb  along  the  outside  drive  at  the  edge 
of  Lincoln  Park,  facing  the  lake.  They  sat  word 
lessly  for  a  brief  space  in  the  healing  quiet  and 
peace  and  darkness,  with  the  waves  lipping  the 
stones  at  their  feet. 

"Nice,"  from  Charley. 

"Mm." 

Silence  again.  An  occasional  motor  sped  past 
them  in  the  darkness.  To  the  south  the  great  pier, 
like  a  monster  sea-serpent,,  stretched  its  mile-length 
into  the  lake.  A  freighter,  ore-laden,  plying  its 
course  between  some  northern  Michigan  mine  and 
an  Indiana  steel  mill  was  transformed  by  the  dark 
ness  and  distance  into  a  barge  of  beauty — mystic, 
silent,  glittering. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  week, 
Lotta?" 

"H'm?  Oh!  Well,  there's  the  houseclean- 
ing " 

"Oh !"  Charley  slammed .  her  fist  down  on  the 
motor  horn.  It  squawked  in  chorus  with  her  pro- 


222  THE  GIRLS 

test.  "If  what  the  Bible  promises  is  true  then 
you're  the  heiress  of  the  ages,,  you  are." 

"Heiress?" 

"  The  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth/  " 

"I'm  not  meek.  I'm  just  the  kind  of  person  that 
things  don't  happen  to." 

"You  don't  let  them  happen.  When  everything 
has  gone  wrong,  and  you're  feeling  stifled  and 
choked,  and  you've  just  been  forbidden,  as  if  you 
were  a  half-wit  of  sixteen,  to  do  something  that 
you've  every  right  to  do,  what's  your  method !  In 
stead  of  blowing  up  with  a  loud  report — instead  of 
asserting  yourself  like  a  free-born  white  woman — 
you  put  on  your  hat  and  take  a  long  walk  and  work 
it  off  that  way.  Then  you  come  home  with  that 
high  spiritual  look  on  your  face  that  makes  me 
want  to  scream  and  slap  you.  You're  exactly  like 
Aunt  Charlotte.  When  she  and  Grandma  have  had 
a  tiff  she  sails  upstairs  and  starts  to  clean  out  her 
bureau  drawers  and  wind  old  ribbons,,  and  fold 
things.  Well,  some  day  in  a  crisis  she'll  find  that 
her  bureau  drawers  have  all  been  tidied  the  day 
before.  Then  what'll  she  do !" 

"Muss  Jem,  up." 

"So  will  you — muss  things  up.  You  mark  the 
words  of  a  gal  that's  been  around." 

"You  kids  to-day  are  so  sure  of  yourselves.  I 
wonder  if  your  method  is  going  to  work  out  any 


THE  GIRLS  223 

better  than  ours.  You  haven't  proved  it  yet.  You 
know,  always,  exactly  what  you  want  to  do  and 
then  you  go  ahead  and  do  it.  It's  so  simple  that 
there  must  be  a  catch  in  it  somewhere." 

"It's  full  of  catches.  That's  what  makes  it  so 
fascinating.  All  these  centuries  we've  been  told 
to  profit  by  the  advice  of  our  elders.  What's  living 
for  if  not  to  experience?  How  can  anyone  know 
whether  you're  right  or  wrong?  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
about  small  things.  Any  stranger  can  decide  for 
you  that  blue  is  more  becoming  than  black.  But 
the  big  things — those  things  I  want  to  decide  for 
myself.  I'm  entitled  to  my  own  mistakes.  I've 
the  right  to  be  wrong.  How  many  middle-aged  peo 
ple  do  you  know  whose  lives  aren't  a  mess  this 
minute !  The  thing  is  to  be  able  to  say,  1  planned 
this  myself  and  my  plans  didn't  work.  Now  I'll 
take  my  medicine.'  You  can't  live  somebody  else's 
life  without  your  own  getting  all  distorted  in  the 
effort.  Now  I'll  probably  marry  Jesse  Dick " 

"Charley  Kemp!  You  don't  know  what  you're 
saying.  You're  a  nineteen-year-old  infant." 

"I'm  a  lot  older  than  you.  Of  course  he  hasn't 
asked  me.  I  don't  suppose  he  ever  will.  I  mean 
they  don't  put  a  hand  on  the  heart  and  say  will- 
you-be-mine.  But  he  hadn't  kissed  me  twice  before 
I  knew." 

A  faint,,  "Charley!" 


224  THE  GIRLS 

"And  he's  the  only  man  I've  ever  met  that  I  can 
fancy  still  caring  for  when  he's  forty-three  and 
I'm  forty.  He'll  never  be  snuffy  and  settled  and 
taken-for-granted.  He  talks  to  children  as  if  they 
were  human  beings  and  not  nuisances  or  idiots.  I've 
heard  him.  He's  darling  with  them.  Sort  of  sol 
emn  and  answers  their  questions  intelligently.  I 
know  that  when  I'm  forty  he'll  still  be  able  to  make 
me  laugh  by  calling  me  'Mrs.  Dick,  ma'am.'  We'll 
probably  disagree,  as  we  do  now,  about  the  big 
empty  things  like  war  and  politics.  But  we're  in 
perfect  accord  about  the  small  things  that  make  up 
everyday  life.  And  they're  the  things  that  count, 
in  marriage." 

"But  Charley,  child,  does  your  mother  know  all 
this?" 

"Oh,  no.  Mother  thinks  she's  the  modern  woman 
and  that  she  makes  up  the  younger  generation.  She 
doesn't  realize  that  I'm  the  younger  generation. 
She's  really  as  old-fashioned  as  any  of  them.  She 
is  superior  in  a  lot  of  ways,  mother  is.  But  she's 
like  all  the  rest  in  most.  She's  been  so  used  all  these 
years  to  having  people  exclaim  with  surprise  when 
she  said  she  had  a  daughter  of  sixteen — seventeen 
— eighteen — that  now,  when  I'm  nineteen  she  still 
expects  people  to  exclaim  over  her  having  a  big  girl. 
I'm  not  a  big  girl.  I'm  not  even  what  the  cheap 


THE  GIRLS  225 

novels  used  to  call  a  'child-woman/    Mother'll  have 
to  wake  up  to  that." 

Lottie  laughed  a  little  at  a  sudden  recollection. 
"When  I  got  this  hat  last  week  mother  went  with 


me." 


"She  would,"  sotto  voce,  from  Charley. 

"The  saleswoman  brought  a  little  pile  of  them — 
four  or  five — and  I  tried  them  on ;  but  they  weren't 
the  thing,  quite.  And  then  mother,  who  was  sitting 
there,  watching  me,  said  to  the  girl :  'Oh,  no,  those 
won't  do.  Show  us  something  more  girlish/  ' 

"There!" 

"Yes,,  but  wasn't  it  kind  of  sweet?  The  clerk 
stared,  of  course.  I  heard  her  giggling  about  it 
afterward  to  one  of  the  other  saleswomen.  You 
see,  mother  thinks  I'm  still  a  girl.  When  I  leave  the 
house  she  often  asks  me  if  I  have  a  clean  handker 
chief." 

"Yes,,  go  on,  be  sentimental  about  it.  That'll 
help.  You've  let  Grandma  dominate  your  life. 
That's  all  right — her  wanting  to,  I  mean.  That's 
human  nature.  The  older  generation  trying  to  curb 
the  younger.  But  your  letting  her  do  it — that's  an 
other  thing.  That's  a  crime  against  your  own  gen 
eration  and  indicates  a  weakness  in  you,  not  in  her. 
The  younger  generation  has  got  to  rule.  Those  of 
us  who  recognize  that  and  act  on  it,  win.  Those 
who  don't  go  under." 


226  THE  GIRLS 

"You're  a  dreadful  child!"  exclaimed  Lottie.  She 
more  than  half  meant  it.  "It's  horrible  to  hear 
you.  Where  did  you  learn  all  this — this  ruthless- 
ness?" 

"I  learned  it  at  school — and  out  of  school.  Those 
are  the  things  we  talk  about.  What  did  you  sup 
pose  boys  and  girls  talk  about  these  days!" 

"I  don't  know,"  Lottie  replied,,  weakly.  She 
thought  of  the  girl  of  the  old  Armour  Institute  days 
— the  girl  who  used  to  go  bicycling  on  Saturdays 
with  the  boy  in  the  jersey  sweater.  They  had  talked 
about  school,  and  books,  and  games,  and  dreams, 
and  even  hopes — very  diffidently  and  shyly — but 
never  once  about  reality  or  life.  If  they  had  per 
haps  things  would  have  been  different  for  Lottie 
Payson,  she  thought  now.  "Let's  go  home,  Chas." 

On  the  drive  home  Charley  talked  of  her  new 
work.  She  was  full  of  shop  stories.  Nightly  she 
brought  home  some  fresh  account  of  the  happen 
ings  in  her  department;  a  tale  of  a  buyer,  or  cus 
tomer,  or  clerk,  or  department  head.  Henry  Kemp 
called  these  her  stock  of  stock-girl  stories.  Fol 
lowing  her  first  week  at  Shield's  she  had  said 
grimly:  "Remember  that  girl  O.  Henry  used  to 
write  about,  the  one  who  kept  thinking  about  her 
feet  all  the  time?  That's  me.  I'm  that  little  shop 
girl,  I  am." 

Her  father  encouraged  her  dinner-table  conver- 


THE  GIRLS  227 

sation  and  roared  at  her  rather  caustic  comment: 
"Our  buyer  came  back  from  New  York 
to-day.  Her  name's  Healy.  She  has  her 
hair  marcelled  regularly  and  wears  the  love 
liest  black  crepe  de  chine  frocks  with  col 
lars  and  cuffs  that  are  simply  priceless,  and 
I  wish  you  could  hear  her  pronounce  Voile/  Like 
this — Vwawl.'  It  isn't  a  mouthful;  it's  a  meal. 
Don't  glare,  mother.  I  know  I'm,  vulgar.  When 
a  North  Shore  customer  comes  in  you  say,  'Do  let 
me  show  you  a  little  import  that  came  in  yester 
day.  It's  too  sweet/  All  high-priced  blouses  are 
'little  imports.7  They're  as  precious  as  jewels  since 
the  war,  of  course.  Healy  used  to  be  a  stock-girl. 
They  say  her  hair  is  gray  but  she  dyes  it  the  most 
fetching  raspberry  shade.  Her  salary  is  twelve 
thousand  a  year  and  she  could  get  eighteen  at  any 
one  of  the  other  big  stores.  She  stays  at  Shield's 
because  she  thinks  it  has  distinction.  'Class,'  she 
calls  it,  unless  she's  talking  to  a  customer  or  some 
one  else  she's  trying  to  impress.  Then  she  says  'at 
mosphere.'  She  supports  her  mother  and  a  good 
for-nothing  brother.  I  like  her.  Her  nails  glitter 
something  grand.  She  calls  me  girlie.  I  wonder 
if  her  pearls  are  real." 

Lottie  listened  now,,  fascinated,  amused,  and  yet 
wondering,  as  Charley  gave  an  account  of  the  meet 
ing  of  the  Ever  Upward  Club.  Charley  was  driv- 


228  THE  GIRLS 

ing  with  one  hand  on  the  steering  wheel.  She  was 
slumped  low  down  on  her  spine.  Lottie  thought 
how  relaxed  she  looked  and  almost  babyish,  and 
yet  how  vital  and  how  knowing.  The  Ever  Upward 
Club,  she  explained,  was  made  up  of  the  women 
workers  in  Shield's.  There  had  been  a  meeting 
of  the  club  this  morning,  before  the  store  opened 
at  nine.  It  was  the  club's  twenty-fifth  anniversary. 
Charley,  on  the  subject,  was  vitriol. 

"There  they  sat,  in  their  black  dresses  and  white 
collars.  Some  of  the  collars  weren't  so  white.  I 
suppose,  after  a  few  years,  washing  out  white  col 
lars  at  night  when  you  get  home  from  work  loses 
its  appeal.  First  Kiesing  made  a  speech  about  the 
meaning  of  Shield's,  and  the  loftiness  of  its  aim. 
I  don't  know  where  he  got  his  information  but  I 
gathered  that  to  have  the  privilege  of  clerking  there 
makes  you  one  of  the  anointed.  Kiesing's  general 
manager,  you  know.  Then  he  brought  forward 
Mrs.  Hough.  She's  pretty  old  and  her  teeth  sort 
of  stick  out  and  her  voice  is  high  and  what  they 
call  querulous,,  I  suppose.  Anyway  it  never  drops 
at  the  end  of  a  sentence.  She  told  how  she  had 
started  the  Ever  Upward  Club  with  a  membership 
of  only  fifteen,  and  now  look  at  it.  Considering 
that  you  have  to  belong  to  it,  and  pay  your  dues 
automatically  when  you  enter  the  store,  I  don't  see 
why  she  feels  so  set  up  about  it.  But  anyway,  she 


THE  GIRLS  229 

does.  You'd  think  she  had  gone  around  converting 
the  heathen  to  Christianity.  She  told  us  in  that 
nasal  rasping  voice  that  it  was  the  spirit  of  cheer 
and  good-will  that  made  tasks  light.  Yes,  indeed. 
And  when  we  got  home  at  night  we  were  to  help  our 
mothers  with  the  dishes  in  a  spirit  of  cheer  and 
with  a  right  good  will.  Then  she  read  one  of 
those  terrible  vim-and-vigour  poems.  You  know. 
Something  like  this : 

If  you  think  you  are  beaten,  you  are. 
If  you  think  you  dare  not,  you  don't. 
If  you  like  to  win  and  don't  think  you  can 
It's  almost  a  cinch  you  won't. 

There  was  a  lot  more  to  it.,  about  Life's  battles  and 
the  man  who  wins.  Most  of  the  girls  looked  half- 
dead  in  their  chairs.  They  had  been  working  over 
time  for  the  spring  opening.  Then  a  girl  sprang 
to  the  platform — she's  the  club  athletic  director,  a 
college  girl,  big,  husky,  good-looking  brute,  too. 
Three  rousing  cheers  for  Mrs.  Hough !  Hip  hip — ' 
We  all  piped  up.  And  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
but  Oliver  Twist  and  the  beadle — what  was  his 
name? — Bumble.  Then  this  girl  told  us  about  the 
value  of  games  and  the  Spirit  of  Play,  and  how 
we  should  leap  and  run  about — after  you've  done 
the  dinner  dishes  with  a  right  good  will,  I  suppose,, 
having  previously  walked  eleven  thousand  miles  in 


230  THE  GIRLS 

your  department  showing  little  imparts  and  trying 
to  convince  a  woman  with  a  forty-two  bust  that  a 
thirty-eight  blouse  is  a  little  snug  .  .  .  'The  ro 
mance  of  business/  Ha!" 

"But  you  like  it,  don't  you  Charley?" 

"Yes.  Goodness  knows  why.  Certainly  I  don't 
want  to  turn  out  a  Healy,  or  a  Hough — or  even  a 
female  Kiesing.  Jesse  did  a  poem  about  it  all." 

"A  good  one?" 

"Good — yes.  And  terrible.  One  of  his  sledge 
hammer  things.  He  calls  it  'Merchandise/  The 
girls,  of  course." 

They  stopped  at  a  corner  drug  store  and  had 
ice  cream,  sodas.  Charley  was  to  spend  the  night 
at  the  Prairie  Avenue  house.  She  had  a  brilliant 
thought.  "Let's  bring  a  chocolate  soda  home  to 
Aunt  Charlotte."  They  ordered  two  in  pressed 
paper  cartons  and  presented  them  at  midnight  to 
Aunt  Charlotte  and  Jeannette.  Jeannette,  looking 
like  a  rose  baby,  ate  hers  in  a  semi-trance,  her  lids 
weighted  with  sleep.  But  great-aunt  Charlotte  was 
wide-awake  immediately,  as  though  a  midnight 
chocolate  ice  cream  soda  were  her  prescribed  night 
cap.  She  sipped  and  blinked  and  scraped  the  bot 
tom  of  the  container  with  her  spoon.  Then,  with 
an  appreciative  sigh,  she  lay  back  on  her  pillow. 

"What  time  is  it,  Lottie?" 

"After  midnight.     Twelve-twenty." 


THE  GIRLS  231 

"That's  nice/'  said  Aunt  Charlotte.  "Let's  have 
waffles  for  breakfast." 

The  mice  were  playing. 

It  was  Lottie's  idea  that  they  accomplish  the 
spring  house  cleaning  in  three  volcanic  days  instead 
of  devoting  a  week  or  more  to  it,,  as  was  Mrs.  Pay- 
son's  habit.  "Let's  all  pitch  in,"  she  said,  "and 
get  it  over  with.  Then  we'll  have  a  week  to  play 
in."  Mrs.  Payson  was  to  remain  ten  days  at  French 
Lick. 

There  followed  such  an  orgy  of  beating,  pound 
ing,  flapping,  brushing,  swashing,  and  scrubbing 
as  no  corps  of  able-bodied  men  could  have  survived. 
The  women  emerged  from  it  with  shrivelled  fingers, 
broken  nails,  and  aching  spines,  but  the  Prairie 
Avenue  house  was  clean,  even  to  the  backs  of  the 
pictures.  After  it  was  over  Lottie  had  a  Turkish 
bath,  a  manicure,  and  a  shampoo  and  proclaimed 
herself  socially  accessible. 

Hulda  drank  coffee  happily,  all  day.  Great-aunt 
Charlotte  announced  that  she  thought  she'd  have 
some  of  the  girls  in  for  the  afternoon.  She  in 
vited  a  group  of  ancients  whose  names  sounded  like 
the  top-most  row  of  Chicago's  social  register.  Their 
sons  or  grandsons  were  world-powers  in  banking, 
packing,  grain-distribution.  Some  of  them  Aunt 
Charlotte  had  not  seen  in  years.  They  rolled  up 
in  great  fat  black  limousines  and  rustled  in  black 


232  THE  GIRLS 

silks  as  modish  as  Aunt  Charlotte's  own.  Lottie 
saw  to  the  tea  and  left  them  absolutely  alone. 
She  heard  them  snickering  and  gossiping  in  their 
high  plangent  voices.  They  bragged  in  a  well-bred 
way  about  their  sons  or  grandsons  or  sons-in-law. 
They  gossiped.  They  reminisced. 

"And  do  you  remember  when  the  Palmer  House 
barber  shop  floor  was  paved  at  intervals  with  sil 
ver  dollars  and  the  farmers  used  to  come  from 
miles  around  to  see  it?" 

"There  hasn't  been  a  real  social  leader  in  Chi 
cago  since  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer  died." 

"Yes,  I  know.  She's  tried.  But  charm— that's 
the  thing  she  hasn't  got.  No.  She  thinks  her  money 
will  do  it.  Never." 

"Well,  it  seems—-" 

What  a  good  time  they  were  having,  Lottie 
thought.  She  had  set  the  table  in  the  dining  room. 
There  were  spring  flowers  and  candles.  She  saw 
that  they  were  properly  served,  but  effaced  herself. 
She  sensed  that  her  presence  would,  somehow,  mar 
Aunt  Charlotte's  complete  sense  of  freedom,,  of 
hospitality,  of  hostesship. 

They  did  not  leave  until  six.  After  they  were 
gone  Aunt  Charlotte  stepped  about  the  sitting  room 
putting  the  furniture  to  rights.  She  was  tired, 
but  too  stimulated  to  rest.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed. 

"Minnie  Parnell  is  beginning  to  show  her  age, 


THE  GIRLS  233 

don't  you  think?  Did  you  see  the  hat  Henrietta 
Grismore  wore?  Well,  I  should  think,  with  all 
her  money !  But  then,  she  always  was  a  funny  girl. 
No  style." 

When,  two  days  later,  Lottie  had  Emma  Barton 
and  Winnie  Steppler  to  dinner  Aunt  Charlotte  kept 
her  room.  She  said  she  felt  a  little  tired — the 
spring  weather  perhaps.  She'd  have  just  a  bite  on 
a  tray  if  Jeannette  would  bring  it  up  to  her;  and 
then  she'd  go  to  bed.  Do  her  good.  Lottie,  under 
standing,  kissed  her. 

Lottie  and  her  two  friends  had  one  of  those  long 
animated  talks.  Lottie  had  lighted  a  fire  in  the  sit 
ting  room  fireplace.  There  were  flowers  in  the  room 
— jonquils,  tulips.  The  old  house  was  quiet,  peace 
ful.  Lottie  made  a  charming  hostess.  They 
laughed  a  good  deal  from  the  very  start  when 
Winnie  Steppler  had  come  up  the  stairs  panting 
apologies  for  her  new  headgear. 

"Don't  say  it's  too  youthful.  I  know  it.  I  bought 
it  on  that  fine  day  last  week — rthe  kind  of  spring 
day  that  makes  you  go  into  a  shop  and  buy  a  hat 
that's  too  young  for  you."  Her  cheeks  were  rosy. 
When  she  laughed  she  opened  her  mouth  wide  and 
stuck  her  tongue  out  so  that  she  reminded  you  of 
the  talcum  baby  picture  so  familiar  to  everyone.  A 
woman  of  tremendous  energy — magnetic,  witty, 
zestful. 


234  THE  GIRLS 

"Fifty's  the  age!"  she  announced  with  gusto,  as 
dinner  progressed.  "At  fifty  you  haven't  a  figger 
any  more  than  you  have  legs — except,  of  course, 
for  purposes  of  locomotion.  At  fifty  you  can  eat 
and  drink  what  you  like.  Chocolate  with  whipped 
cream  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  Who  cares!  A 
second  helping  of  dessert.  It's  a  grand  time  of 
life.  At  fifty  you  don't  wait  for  the  telephone  to 
ring.  Will  he  call  me !  Won't  he  call  me !  A  tele 
phone's  just  a  telephone  at  fifty — a  convenience 
without  a  thrill  to  it.  Many's  the  time  that  bell 
has  stabbed  me.  But  not  now.  Nothing  more  can 
happen  to  you  at  fifty — if  you've  lived  your  life 
as  you  should.  Here  I  sit,  stays  loosened,  savour 
ing  life.  I  wouldn't  change  places  with  any  young 
sprat  I  know." 

Emma  Barton  smiled,  calm-eyed.  Winnie  Step- 
pier  had  been  twice  married,  once  widowed,  once 
divorced.  Emma  Barton  had  never  married.  Yet 
both  knew  peace  at  fifty. 

"Well,,"  said  Lottie,  as  they  rose  from  the  table, 
"perhaps,  by  the  time  I'm  fifty — but  just  now  I've 
such  a  frightened  feeling  as  though  everything 
were  passing  me  by;  all  the  things  that  matter. 
I  want  to  grab  at  life  and  say,  'Heh,  wait  a  min 
ute  !  Aren't  you  forgetting  me  ?' ' 

Winnie  Steppler  glanced  at  her  sharply.     "Look 


THE  GIRLS  235 

out,  my  girl,  that  it  doesn't  rush  back  at  your  call 
and  drop  the  wrong  trick  into  your  lap." 

A  little  flash  of  defiance  came  into  Lottie's  eyes. 
"The  wrong  trick's  better  than  no  trick  at  all." 

Emma  Barton  looked  at  Lottie  curiously,  with 
much  the  same  glance  that  she  bestowed  upon  the 
girls  who  came  before  her  each  morning.  "What 
do  you  need  to  keep  you  happy,  Lottie?" 

Lottie  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  "Work  that's 
congenial ;  books ;  music  occasionally ;  a  picnic  in  the 
woods;  a  five-mile  hike,  a  well-fitting  suit,  a  thir- 
teen-dollar  corset,  Charley — I  didn't  mean  to  place 
her  last.  She  should  be  up  at  the  beginning  some 
where." 

"How  about  this  superstition  they  call  love?"  in 
quired  Winnie  Steppler.  Lottie  shrugged  her  shoul 
ders.  Winnie  persisted.  "There  must  have  been 
somebody,  some  time." 

"Well,  when  I  was  seventeen  or  eighteen — but 
there  never  was  anything  serious  about  it,  really. 
Since  then — you  wouldn't  believe  how  rarely  women 
of  my  type  meet  men — interesting  men.  You  have 
to  make  a  point  of  meeting  them,,  I  suppose.  And 
I've  been  here  at  home.  I'm  thirty-three.  Not  bad 
looking.  I've  kept  my  figure,  and  hair,  and  skin. 
Walking,  I  suppose.  The  men  I  know  are  snuffy 
bachelors  nearing  fifty,  or  widowers  with  three  chil 
dren.  They'd  rather  go  to  a  musical  show  than  a 


236  THE  GIRLS 

symphony  concert;  they'll  tell  you  they  do  enough 
walking  in  their  business.  I  don't  mind  their  being 
bald — though  why  should  they  be? — but  I  do  mind 
their  being  snuffy.  I  suppose  there  are  men  of 
about  my  own  age  who  like  the  things  I  like ;  whose 
viewpoint  is  mine.  But  attractive  men  of  thirty- 
five  marry  girls  of  twenty.  I  don't  want  to  marry 
a  boy  of  twenty;  but  neither  can  I  work  up  any 
enthusiasm  for  a  man  of  fifty  who  tells  me  that 
what  he  wants  is  a  home,  and  who  would  no  more 
take  a  tramp  in  the  country  for  enjoyment  than 
he  would  contemplate  a  trip  to  Mars." 

Emma  Barton  interposed.  "What  were  you  do 
ing  at  twenty-five?" 

Lottie  glanced  around  the  room.  Her  hand  came 
out  in  a  little  gesture  that  included  the  house  and 
its  occupants.  "Just  what  I'm  doing  now.  But 
not  even  thinking  about  it — as  I  do  now !  I  think 
I  had  an  idea  I  was  important.  Now  that  I  look 
back  on  it,  it  seems  to  me  I've  just  been  running 
errands  for  the  last  ten  years  or  more.  Running 
errands  up  and  down,  while  the  world  has  gone 
by." 

Two  days  before  her  mother's  return  Lottie  pre 
vailed  upon  Jeannette  to  invite  a  half  dozen  or  more 
of  her  business  college  acquaintances  to  spend  the 
evening  at  the  house.  Jeannette  demurred  at  first, 
but  it  was  plain  the  idea  fascinated  her.  Seven 


THE  GIRLS  237 

of  them  arrived  at  the  time  appointed.  Their  ages 
ranged  between  seventeen  and  twenty-two.  The 
girls  were  amazingly  well  dressed  in  georgettes  and 
taffetas  and  smart  slippers  and  silk  stockings.  The 
boys  were,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  shipping-clerk 
type.  They  were  all  palpably  impressed  with  the 
big  old  house  on  Prairie,  its  massive  furniture  and 
pictures,  its  occupants.  Lottie  met  them  all,  as 
did  Aunt  Charlotte  who  had  donned  her  second- 
best  black  silk  and  her  jewelry  and  had  crimped 
her  hair  for  the  occasion.  She  sensed  that  what 
Jeannette  needed  was  background.  Aunt  Char 
lotte  vanished  before  nine  and  Lottie  did  likewise, 
to  appear  again  only  for  the  serving  of  the  ice 
cream  and  cake.  They  danced,,  sang,  seemed  really 
to  enjoy  the  evening.  After  they  had  gone  Jean 
nette  turned  to  Lottie  and  catching  up  one  of  her 
hands  pressed  it  against  her  own  glowing  cheek. 
Her  eyes  were  very  bright.  They — and  the  ges 
ture — supplied  the  meaning  that  her  inarticulate 
speech  lacked.  "It  was  grand!" 

It  was  typical  of  Charley  and  indicative  of  the 
freedom  with  which  she  lived,  that  her  existence 
during  the  ten  days  of  her  mother's  absence  did 
not  vary  at  all  from  the  usual.  She  would  have 
been  torn  between  laughter  and  fury  could  she 
have  realised  the  sense  of  boldness  and  freedom 
with  which  Lottie,  her  aunt,  and  Charlotte,  her 


238  THE  GIRLS 

great-aunt,  set  about  planning  their  innocent  maid 
enly  revels. 

Mrs.  Payson  and  Belle  returned  from  French 
Lick  the  first  week  in  May.  Mrs.  Payson,  divest 
ing  herself  of  her  wraps,,  ran  a  quick  and  compre 
hensive  eye  over  the  room,  over  Lottie,  over  Aunt 
Charlotte,  Jeannette,  Hulda.  It  was  as  though  she 
read  Coffee !  Tea  Party !  Dinner !  Dance !  in  their 
faces.  Her  first  question  seemed  to  carry  with  it 
a  hidden  meaning.  "Well,  what  have  you  been 
doing  while  I've  been  gone?  Did  Brosch  call  up 
about  the  plastering?  Did  you  have  Henry  and 
Charley  to  dinner  ?  Any  letters  ?  How  many  days 
did  you  have  Mrs.  Schlagel  for  the  cleaning?  Lot 
tie,  get  me  a  cup  of  tea.  I  feel  kind  of  faint — not 
hungry,  but  a  faint  feeling.  Oh — Ben  Gartz  was 
in  French  Lick.  Did  I  write  you?  He  was  very 
attentive.  Very.  Every  inch  the  gentleman.  I  don't 
know  what  Belle  and  I  would  have  done  without 
him." 


CHAPTER  XII 

FOR  fifteen  years  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson's  bitter 
ness  at  the  outcome  of  her  own  unfortunate 
marriage  had  been  unconsciously  expressed  in  her 
attitude  toward  the  possible  marriage  of  her  daugh 
ter  Lottie.  Confronted  with  this  accusation,  she 
would  have  denied  it  and  her  daughter  Lottie  would 
have  defended  her  in  the  denial.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  true.  During  the  years  when  all  Mrs.  Pay- 
son's  energy,  thought,  and  time  were  devoted  to 
the  success  of  the  real  estate  and  bond  business, 
her  influence  had  been  less  markedly  felt  than  later. 
In  some  indefinable  way  the  few  men  who  came 
within  Lottie's  ken  were  startled  and  repelled  by 
the  grim  white-haired  woman  who  regarded  them 
with  eyes  of  cold  hostility.  One  or  two  of  them 
had  said,  uncomfortably,  in  one  of  Mrs.  Payson's 
brief  absences,  "Your  mother  doesn't  like  me." 
"What  nonsense!  Why  shouldn't  she?" 
"I  don't  know.  She  looks  at  me  as  if  she  had 
something  on  me."  Then  as  Lottie  stiffened  per 
ceptibly,  "Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that  exactly.  No  of 
fence,  I  hope.  I  just  meant " 

239 


24o  THE  GIRLS 

"Mother's  like  I  am,  She  isn't  demonstrative  but 
her  likes  and  dislikes  are  very  definite."  Lottie,  re 
member,  was  only  twenty-three  or  thereabouts  at 
this  time.  Still,  she  should  have  known  better. 

"You  don't  say !"  the  young  man  would  exclaim, 
thoughtfully. 

Now,  suddenly,  Mrs.  Payson  had  about-faced. 
Perhaps  this  in  turn  was  as  unconscious  as  her 
previous  attitude  had  been.  Perhaps  the  thought 
of  a  spinster  daughter  of  thirty-three  pricked  her 
vanity.  Perhaps  she,  like  Lottie,  had  got  a  sudden 
glimpse  into  the  future  in  which  she  saw  Lottie 
a  second  Aunt  Charlotte,,  tremulous  and  withered, 
telling  out  her  days  in  her  sister  Belle's  household. 
It  was  slowly  borne  in  on  Lottie  that  her  mother 
regarded  Ben  Gartz  favourably  as  a  possible  son-in- 
law.  Her  first  sensation  on  making  this  discovery 
was  one  of  amusement.  Her  mother  in  the  role  of 
match-maker  wore  a  humourous  aspect,  certainly. 
As  the  weeks  went  on  this  amusement  gave  way 
to  something  resembling  terror.  Mrs.  Payson  usu 
ally  achieved  her  own  ends.  Lottie  had  never 
defined  the  relationship  that  existed  between  her 
mother  and  herself.  She  did  not  suspect  that  they 
were  united  by  a  strong  bond  of  affection  and  hate 
so  complexly  interwoven  that  it  was  almost  impos 
sible  to  tell  which  strand  was  this  and  which  that. 
Mrs.  Payson  did  not  dream  that  she  had  blocked 


THE  GIRLS  241 

her  daughter's  chances  for  a  career  or  for  marital 
happiness.  Neither  did  she  know  that  she  looked 
down  upon  that  daughter  for  having  failed  to  marry. 
But  both  were  true  in  some  nightmarish  and  in 
definable  way.  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson,  the  coarser 
metal,  had  beat  upon  Lottie,  the  finer,  and  had 
moulded  and  shaped  her  as  iron  beats  upon  gold. 

Lottie  was  still  in  the  amused  stage  when  Mrs. 
Payson  remarked: 

"I  understand  that  Ben  Gartz  is  going  into  that 
business  he  spoke  of  last  spring.  Men's  wrist 
watches.  We  all  thought  he  was  making  a  mis 
take  but  it  seems  he's  right.  He's  going  in  with 
Beck  and  Diblee  this  fall.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
Ben  Gartz  should  turn  out  to  be  a  very  rich  man 
some  day.  A  ve-ry  rich  man.  Especially  if  this 


war " 


"That'll  be  nice,"  said  Lottie. 

"I  wish  Henry  had  some  of  his  push  and  enter 
prise." 

Lottie  looked  up  quickly  at  that.,  prompt  in  de 
fense  of  Henry.  "Henry  isn't  to  blame  for  the 
war.  His  business  was  successful  enough  until 
two  years  ago — more  than  successful.  It  just  hap 
pens  to  be  the  kind  that  has  been  hardest  hit." 

"Why  doesn't  he  take  up  a  new  business,  then ! 
Ben  Gartz  is  going  into  something  new." 

"Ben's  mother  left  him  a  little  money  when  she 


242  THE  GIRLS 

died.  I  suppose  he's  putting  that  into  the  new 
business.  Besides,  he  hasn't  a  family  to  think  of. 
He  can  take  a  chance.  If  it  doesn't  turn  out  he'll 
be  the  only  one  to  suffer." 

"Ben  Gartz  is  an  unusual  boy."  (Boy!)  "He 
was  a  wonderful  son  to  his  mother  .  .  .  I'd  like 
to  know  what  you  have  against  him." 

"Against  him!  Why,  not  a  thing,  mama. 
Only " 

Lottie  hesitated.  Then,  regrettably,  she  giggled. 
"Only  he  has  never  heard  of  Alice  in  Wonderland, 
and  he  thinks  the  Japs  are  a  wonderful  little  people 
but  look  out  for  'em!,  and  he  speaks  of  summer 
as  the  heated  term,  and  he  says  'not  an  iota.' ' 

"Not  an  iota!"  echoed  Mrs.  Payson  almost  fee 
bly. 

"Yes.  You  know — 'not  an  iota  of  truth  in  it'; 
'not  an  iota  of  difference.' ' 

"Lottie  Payson,  sometimes  I  think  you're  down 
right  idiotic!  Alice  in  Wonderland!  The  idea! 
Woman  your  age!  Ben  Gartz  is  a  business  man." 

"Indeed  he  is— strictly." 

"I  suppose  you'd  prefer  going  around  with  some 
young  fool  like  this  poet  Charley  has  picked  up 
from  behind  the  delicatessen  counter.  I  don't  know 
what  your  sister  Belle  can  be  thinking  of." 

Sister  Belle  was  thinking  of  a  number  of  things, 
none  of  them  pleasant;  and  none  of  them  connected 


THE  GIRLS  243 

with  Charley  or  Charley's  poet.  Henry  Kemp  had 
sold  the  car — the  big,  luxurious,  swift-moving  car. 
He  had  hinted  that  the  nine-room  apartment  on 
Hyde  Park  Boulevard  might  soon  be  beyond  his 
means. 

"If  this  keeps  up  much  longer,,"  he  had  said  one 
day  to  Charley,  "your  old  dad  wrill  be  asking  you 
for  a  job  as  bundle  boy  at  Shield's/'  His  laugh, 
as  he  said  it,  had  been  none  too  robust. 

Charley  had  been  promoted  from  stock-girl  to 
saleswoman.  She  said  she  supposed  now  she'd  have 
to  save  up  for  black  satin  slippers,  a  French  frock, 
a  string  of  pearls,  and  filet  collars  and  cuffs — the 
working  girl's  costume.  She  announced,  further, 
that  her  education  had  reached  a  point  where  any 
blouse  not  band  made  and  bearing  a  thirty-nine  dol 
lar  price  tag  was  a  mere  rag  in  her  opinion. 

Charley's  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays 
were  spent  in  the  country  about  Chicago — at  the  In 
diana  sand  dunes;  at  Palos  Park  when  May  trans 
formed  its  trees  into  puff-balls  of  apple  blossoms; 
in  the  woods  about  Beverly;  along  the  far  North 
Shore.  Both  she  and  Lottie  were  hardened  tramp- 
ers.  Lottie  was  expert  at  what  she  called  "cook 
ing  out."  She  could  build  a  three-section  fire  with 
incredibly  little  fuel  and  only  one  match.  Just  as 
you  were  becoming  properly  ravenous  she  had  the 
coffee  steaming  in  one  section,  the  bacon  sizzling 


244  THE  GIRLS 

in  another,  the  sausages  boiling  in  another.  Now 
that  the  Kemp  car  was  gone  these  country  excur 
sions  became  fewer  for  Lottie.  She  missed  them. 
The  electric  was  impossible  for  country  travel.  It 
often  expired  even  on  the  boulevards  and  had  to 
be  towed  back  to  the  garage.  Charley  said  that 
Jesse  Dick's  flivver  saved  her  life  and  youth  these 
spring  days.  Together  they  ranged  the  country 
side  in  it,  a  slim  volume  of  poetry  (not  his  own) 
in  Jesse  Dick's  pocket  and  a  plump  packet  of  sand 
wiches  and  fruit  in  a  corner  of  the  seat.  You 
were  beginning  to  see  reviews  of  Jesse  Dicks'  poems 
in  The  Dial,  in  the  New  Republic,  in  the  weekly 
literary  supplements  of  the  newspapers.  They 
spoke  of  his  work  as  being  "virile  and  American/' 
They  said  it  had  a  "warm  human  quality."  He 
sang  everyday  life — the  grain-pit,  the  stockyards, 
the  steel  mill,  the  street  corner,  the  movies.  Some 
of  the  reviews  said,  "But  this  isn't  poetry!"  Per 
haps  they  had  just  been  reading  the  thing  he  called 
"Halsted  Street."  You  know  it: 

Halsted  street.    All  the  nations  of  the  world. 

Mill  end  sales;  shlag  stores;  Polack   women  gossiping. 

Look  at  the  picture  of  the  bride  in  her  borrowed  wedding 

dress 
Outside  the  Italian  photograph  gallery — —  •• 

Perhaps  they  were  right. 

Still,  while  he  did  not  write  spring  poetry  of 


THE  GIRLS  245 

the  May-day  variety  it  is  certain  that  not  a  peach- 
pink  petal  on  a  wild-crab  tree  blossoming  by  the 
roadway  bloomed  in  vain  as  Jesse  and  Charley 
passed  by.  Not  that  they  were  rhapsodic  about  it. 
These  two  belonged  to  the  new  order  to  whom 
lyricism  was  loathsome,  adjective  anathema.  Fine 
and  moving  things  were  received  with  a  trite  or 
even  an  uncouth  word  or  phrase.  After  a  Brahms 
symphony  you  said,  "Gee!"  It  was  considered 
"hickey"  or  ostentatious  to  speak  of  a  thing  as  be 
ing  exquisite  or  wonderful.  They  even  revived  that 
humourously  vulgar  and  practically  obsolete  word, 
"swell."  A  green  and  gold  and  pink  May-day  land 
scape  was  "elegant."  Struck  by  the  beauty  of  a 
scene,  the  majesty  of  a  written  passage,  the  magnifi 
cence  of  the  lake  in  a  storm,  the  glory  of  an  orchard 
in  full  bloom,  they  used  the  crude  and  rustic  "Gosh !" 
This  only  when  deeply  stirred. 

Late  in  May,  Ben  Gartz  bought  a  car  of  unim 
pressive  make  but  florid  complexion.  He  referred 
to  it  always  as  "the  bus."  As  soon  as  he  had  mas 
tered  it  he  drove  round  to  the  Paysons'  and  pro 
posed  a  Sunday  morning  ride  to  Lottie. 

"Go  on,  Lottie,"  Mrs.  Payson  said,  "it'll  do  you 
good." 

The  devil  of  perversity  seized  Lottie.  "I  hate 
driving  in  town.  I've  trundled  that  electric  of  ours 
over  these  fifty  miles — or  is  it  one  hundred? — of 


246  THE  GIRLS 

boulevards  until  I  could  follow  the  route  blind 
folded.  Jackson  Park  to  the  Midway — the  Mid 
way  to  Washington  Park — Washington  to  Gar- 
field—  Garfield— " 

"Well,  then,  how  about  a  drive  in  the  country? 
Anywhere  you  say,  Miss  Lottie.  The  little  old 
bus  is  yours  to  command." 

"All  right/'  said  Lottie.     "Let's  take  Charley." 

"Fine!"  Ben's  tone  was  sufficiently  hearty,  if 
somewhat  hollow.  "Great  little  kid,  Charley.  What 
do  you  say  to  having  lunch  at  one  of  those  road- 
houses  along  the  way?  Chicken  dinner." 

"Oh,,  no!  Let's  cook  out."  Ben,  looking  dubi 
ous,  regarded  the  end  of  his  cigar.  But  Lottie  was 
already  on  her  way  to  the  kitchen.  He  clapped  on 
his  derby  hat  and  went  out  to  look  over  the  bus. 
Aside  from  keeping  it  supplied  with  oil  and  gaso 
line  its  insides  were  as  complete  a  mystery  to  him 
as  the  workings  of  the  solar  system.  Lottie,  flushed 
and  animated,  was  slicing  bacon,  cutting  sand 
wiches,  measuring  out  coffee.  She  loved  a  day  in 
the  country,  Ben  or  no  Ben.  They  telephoned  Char 
ley.  She  said,  "Can  I  take  Jesse?  His  fliv's  got 
something  the  matter  with  its  insides.  We  had 
planned  to  go  to  Thornton." 

"Sure,"  Ben  agreed  again  when  Lottie  put  this 
to  him.  On  the  way  to  the  Kemp  apartment  they 
stopped  at  a  delicatessen  and  bought  cream,  fruit, 


THE  GIRLS  247 

wieners,  cheese,,  salad.  As  she  stepped  out  of  the 
car  Lottie  saw  that  the  fat  gold  letters  on  the  win 
dow  spelled  "DICK'S  DELICATESSEN — AND  BAK 
ERY."  She  was  conscious  of  a  little  shock.  Im 
mediately  she  was  ashamed  that  this  should  be  so. 
Dick's  delicatessen  was  white-tiled,  immaculate, 
smelling  of  things  spiced  and  fruity  and  pickled. 
A  chubby  florid  man  with  a  shock  of  curly  rust-red 
hair  waited  on  her.  He  was  affable,  good-natured. 

"Going  on  a  picnic,  h'm?"  he  said.  He  gave 
her  good  measure — too  good  for  his  own  profit, 
Lottie  thought.  She  glanced  about  for  the  wife. 
She  must  be  the  business  man  of  this  concern.  Mrs. 
Dick  was  not  there. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Dick?"  Lottie  asked. 

"Yes  ma'am!  I  sure  am."  He  began  to  total 
the  sales,  using  the  white  marble  counter  as  a  tab 
let  for  his  pencil.  "Cheese — wieners — tongue — 
pickles — cream, — that'll  be  one  dollar  and  forty- 
three  cents.  If  you  bring  back  the  cream  bottle 
with  this  ticket  you  get  five  cents  refund." 

She  thought  of  the  slim  and  exquisite  Charley; 
of  Belle,  the  fastidious.  "Oh,  pooh!"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  went  out  to  the  car  with  Ben,  bun 
dle-laden,  "she's  only  a  kid.  A  temporary  case  on 
a  near-poet,  that's  all." 

When  they  reached  the  Hyde  Park  apartment 
Charley  and  the  poet  were  seated  on  the  outer 


248  THE  GIRLS 

steps  in  the  sun.  The  poet  wore  becoming  shabby 
gray  tweeds,  a  soft  shirt  and  no  hat.  Lottie  ad 
mitted  to  herself  that  he  looked  charming — even 
distinguished. 

"Don't  you  own  one?"  she  asked.  He  quirked 
one  eyebrow.  "A  hat,  I  mean." 

"Oh."  He  glanced  at  Ben's  derby.  Then  he 
took  from  one  capacious  pocket  a  soft  cloth  cap 
and  put  it  on.  He  glanced  then  at  his  hands,  af 
fecting  great  embarrassment.  "My  gloves ! — stick !" 
He  glanced  frantically  up  and  down  the  street. 
''My  spats!" 

The  three  laughed.  Ben  joined  in  a  little  late, 
and  evidently  bewildered. 

Charley  presented  her  contribution  to  the  picnic 
lunch.  Gussie  had  baked  a  caramel  cake  the  day 
before.  Sweaters,  boxes,  coats,  baskets,  bundles — 
they  were  off. 

They  headed  for  Palos  Park.  Hideous  as  is  the 
countryside  about  Chicago  in  most  directions,  this 
spot  to  the  southwest  is  a  thing  of  loveliness  in  May 
and  in  October.  Gently  sloping  hills  relieve  the  flat 
monotony  of  the  Illinois  prairie  landscape.  The 
green  of  the  fields  and  trees  was  so  tender  as  to 
carry  with  it  a  suggestion  of  gold.  Jesse  and  Char 
ley  occupied  the  back  seat.  Lottie  sat  in  front  with 
Ben  Gartz.  He  drove  badly,  especially  on  the  hills. 
The  two  in  the  back  seat  politely  refrained  from 


THE  GIRLS  249 

comment  or  criticism.  But  on  the  last  steep  hill 
the  protesting  knock  of  the  tortured  engine  wrung 
interference  from  Charley.  To  her  an  engine  was 
a  precious  thing.  She  could  no  more  have  mis 
treated  it  than  she  could  have  kicked  a  baby.  "Shift 
to  second!"  she  cried  now,  in  actual  pain.  "Can't 
you  hear  her  knocking!" 

They  struck  camp  on  a  wooded  knoll  a  little  ways 
back  from  the  road  and  with  a  view  of  the  coun 
tryside  for  miles  around.  Ben  Gartz  presented  that 
most  pathetic  and  incongruous  of  human  specta 
cles — a  fat  man,  in  a  derby,  at  a  picnic. 

He  made  himself  useful,  gathered  wood,  produced 
matches,  carried  water,  arranged  seats  made  up 
of  cushions  and  robes  from  the  car  and  was  not 
at  all  offended  when  the  others  expressed  a  pref 
erence  for  the  ground. 

"Say,  this  is  great!"  he  exclaimed,  again  and 
again,  "Yessir!  Nothing  like  getting  away  from 
the  city,  let  me  tell  you,  into  God's  big  outdoors." 
The  three  smiled  at  what  they  took  to  be  an  unex 
pected  burst  of  humour  and  were  startled  to  see  that 
he  was  quite  serious.  Ben  tucked  a  napkin  under 
his  vest  and  played  the  waiter.  He  praised  the 
wieners,  the  coffee,  the  bacon,  the  salad.  He  ate 
prodigiously,  and  smiled  genially  on  Lottie  and 
winked  an  eye  in  her  direction  at  the  same  time 
nodding  toward  Charley  and  Jesse  to  indicate  that 


250  THE  GIRLS 

he  was  a  party  to  some  very  special  secret  that 
Lottie  shared  with  him.  He  sat  cross-legged  on 
the  ground  and  suffered.  When  the  luncheon  was 
finished  he  fell  upon  his  cigar  with  almost  a  groan 
of  relief. 

"Have  a  cigar,  sir?"  He  proffered  a  plump 
brown  cylinder  to  Jesse  Dick. 

"No  thanks/'  Jesse  replied;  and  took  from  his 
own  pocket  a  paper  packet. 

"A  cigarette  boy,  eh?  Well,  let  me  tell  you  some 
thing,  youngster.  A  hundred  of  those'll  do  you 
more  harm  than  a  barrel  of  these.  Yessir!  You 
take  a  fella  smokes  a  mild  cigar  after  his  meal, 
why,  when  he's  through  with  that  cigar  he's  through 
— for  awhile,  anyway.  He  don't  light  another  right 
away.  But  start  to  smoke  a  cigarette  and  first  thing 
you  know  where's  the  package!" 

Jesse  appeared  to  consider  this  gravely.  Ben 
Gartz  leaned  back  supported  by  one  hand,  palm 
down,  on  the  ground.  His  left  was  hooked  in  the 
arm-hole  of  his  vest.  One  leg  was  extended  stif 
fly  in  front  of  him,,  the  other  drawn  up.  He  puffed 
at  his  cigar. 

Lottie  rose  abruptly.  "I'll  clear  these  things 
away."  She  smiled  at  Jesse  and  Charley.  "You  two 
children  go  for  a  walk.  I  know  you're  dying  to. 
I'll  have  everything  slicked  up  in  a  jiffy." 

"Oh,  I  think  not,"  the  two  answered.    They  knew 


THE  GIRLS  251 

what  was  sporting  and  rigidly  followed  certain 
forms  of  conduct.  Having  eaten,  they  expected  to 
pay.  They  scraped,  cleared,  folded,,  packed  with 
the  deftness  of  practiced  picnickers.  Jesse  Dick's 
eye  was  caught  by  the  name  on  the  cover  of  a 
discarded  pasteboard  box. 

"Oh,  say!     You  got  this  stuff  at  father's/' 

"Yes;  we  stopped  on  the  way " 

The  boy  tapped  the  cover  of  the  box  and  grinned. 
"Best  delicatessen  in  Chicago,  Illinois,  ladies  and 
gents,  if  I  say  it  as  shouldn't.  Dad  certainly  pic 
kles  a  mean  herring."  His  face  sobered.  "He's 
an  artist  in  his  line — father.  Did  you  ever  see 
one  of  his  Saturday  night  windows?  He'll  have 
a  great  rugged  mountain  of  Swiss  cheese  in  the 
background,  with  foothills  of  Roquefort  and  Edam. 
Then  there'll  be  a  plateau  of  brown  crackly  roasted 
turkeys  and  chickens,  and  below  this,  like  flowers 
in  the  valley,  all  the  pimento  and  mayonnaise  things, 
the  salads,,  and  lettuces  and  deviled  eggs  and  stuffed 
tomatoes.  (His  poem  "Delicatessen  Window"  is 
now  included  in  the  volume  called  "Roughneck." 

"I  understand  youfre  a  poet,"  Ben  Gartz  ire- 
marked,  quizzically.  For  him  there  was  humour  in 
the  very  word. 

"Yes." 

"Now  that's  funny,  ain't  it — with  your  father 
in  the  delicatessen  business  and  all?" 


252  THE  GIRLS 

Again  Jesse  Dick  seemed  to  ponder  seriously. 
"Maybe  it  is.  But  I  know  of  quite  a  good  poet 
who  was  apprenticed  to  a  butcher." 

"Butcher!  No!"  Ben  roared  genially.  "What 
poet  was  that?" 

Jesse  Dick  glanced  at  Charley  then.  He  looked 
a  little  shame- faced;  and  yet,  having  begun,  he 
went  through  with  it.  "Shakespeare,,  his  name 
was.  Will  Shakespeare." 

"Oh,  say,  what's  this  you're  giving  me!"  But 
the  faces  of  the  three  were  serious.  "Say,  is  that 
right?"  He  appealed  to  Lottie. 

"It's  supposed  to  be  true,"  she  said,  gently, 
"though  it  has  been  doubted."  Lottie  had  brought 
along  the  olive-drab  knitting  in  a  little  flowered 
cretonne  bag.  She  sat  on  the  ground  now,  in  the 
sunlight,  her  back  against  a  tree,  knitting. 

Jesse  and  Charley  rose,,  wordlessly,  as  though 
with  one  thought  and  glanced  across  the  little 
meadow  beyond.  It  was  a  Persian  carpet  of  spring 
flowers — little  pink,  and  mauve,  and  yellow  chalices. 
Charley  gazed  at  it  a  moment,  her  head  thrown 
back.  She  began  to  walk  toward  it,  through  the 
wood.  Jesse  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette.  His  eyes 
were  on  Charley.  He  called  out  to  her.  "See  your 
whole  leg  through  that  dress  of  yours,  Charley." 

She  glanced  down  carelessly.  "Yes  ?  That's  be 
cause  I'm  standing  in  the  sun,,  I  suppose."  It  was  a 


THE  GIRLS  253 

slim,  little  wool  jersey  frock.  "I  never  wear  a  petti 
coat  with  this/'  They  strolled  off  together  across 
the  meadow. 

"Well!"  exploded  Ben  Gartz,  "that  young  fella 
certainly  is  a  free  talker."  He  looked  after  them, 
his  face  red.  "Young  folks  nowdays— 

"Young  folks  nowdays  are  wonderful,"  Lottie 
said.  She  remembered  an  expression  she  had  heard 
somewhere.  "They're  sitting  on  top  of  the  world." 

Out  on  the  flower-strewn  carpet  of  meadow-grass 
Charley  was  doing  a  dance  in  the  sunlight  all  alone 
— a  dance  that  looked  like  an  inspired  improvisa 
tion  and  that  probably  represented  hours  of  care 
ful  technical  training.  If  a  wood-nymph  had  ever 
worn  a  wool  jersey  frock  she  would  have  looked 
as  Charley  looked  now.  Ben,  almost  grudgingly, 
admitted  something  like  this.  "Gosh,  that  kid  cer 
tainly  can  dance!  Where'd  she  pick  it  up?" 

"She's  had  years  of  training — lessons.  Boys  and 
girls  do  nowdays,  you  know.  They  have  everything. 
We  never  used  to.  I  wish  we  had.  If  their  teeth 
aren't  perfect  they're  straightened.  Everything's 
made  perfect  that's  imperfect.  And  they're  taught 
about  music,  and  they  know  books,  and  they  look 
the  world  in  the  eye.  They're  free !" 

Ben  dug  in  the  soft  ground  with  a  bit  of  wood. 
"How  d'you  mean — free?" 


254  THE  GIRLS 

"Why  I  mean — free/'  she  said  again,  lamely. 
'"Honest.  Not  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

She  shook  her  head  then,  and  went  on  with  her 
knitting.  Lottie  looked  very  peaceful  and  pleas 
ant  there  in  the  little  sun-dappled  wood,  with  the 
light  shining  on  her  hair,  her  firm  strong  shoulders 
resting  against  the  black  trunk  of  the  tree,  her  slim 
black-silk  ankles  crossed  primly.  Ben  regarded  her 
appreciatively. 

"Well,  you're  perfect  enough  to  suit  me,"  he 
blurted. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gartz,  sir !  You're  a-flattering  of  me, 
so  you  are!"  Inside  she  was  thinking,  "Oh,  my 
goodness,  stop  him!" 

But  Ben  himself  was  a  little  terrified  at  what  he 
had  said.  After  all,  the  men's  watch  bracelet  busi 
ness  was  still  in  the  venturesome  stage. 

"Well,  I'm  not  a  man  to  flatter.  I  mean  we're 
not  so  bad  off,  older  folks  like  us.  I'm,  not  envy 
ing  those  kids  anything.  I  guess  I'm  a  kind  of  a 
funny  fella,,  anyway.  Different  from  most." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  Lottie  encouraged  him, 
knitting.  ("You're  exactly  like  a  million  others 
— a  million  billion  others.") 

"I  think  so — yes.  I've  been  around  a  good  deal. 
I've  had  my  ups  and  downs.  I  know  this  little 


THE  GIRLS  255 

old  world  from  the  cellar  to  the  attic,  and  I  don't 
envy  anybody  anything." 

Lottie  smiled  a  little,  and  looked  at  him,  and 
wondered.  How  smug  he  was,  and  oily,  and  plausi 
ble.  What  seepage  was  there  beneath  the  placid 
surface  of  his  dull  conversation.  Adventure!  No,, 
not  adventure.  Yet  this  kindly  paunchy  bachelor 
knew  phases  of  life  that  she  had  never  even  ap 
proached. 

"What  do  you  mean  when  you  say  you've  been 
around?  Around  where?" 

"Oh,  around.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Men — 
well,  a  nice  girl  like  you  wouldn't  just  understand 
how  it  is  with  a  man,  but  I  mean  I  been — uh — 
now — subject  to  the  same  temptations  other  men 
have.  But  I  know  there's  nothing  in  it.  Give  me 
a  nice  little  place  of  my  own,  my  own  household, 
a  little  bus  to  run  around  in  and  I  wouldn't  change 
places  with  a  king.  No  sir.  Nor  a  poet  either." 
He  laughed  largely  at  that,  and  glanced  across  the 
meadow.  "I  don't  know.  I  guess  I'm  a  funny 
fella.  Different.  That's  me.  Different." 

Barren  as  Lottie's  experience  with  men  had  been 
she  still  knew,  as  does  any  woman,  that  there  are 
certain  invariable  reactions  to  certain  given  state 
ments.  These  were  scientific  in  their  chemical  pre 
cision.  In  conversation  with  the  average  man  you 
said  certain  things  and  immediately  got  certain  re- 


256  THE  GIRLS 

suits.  It  was  like  fishing  in  a  lively  trout  stream. 
This  dialogue,  for  example,  she  or  any  other  wom 
an  could  have  written  before  it  had  been  spoken. 
She  felt  that  she  could  see  what  was  going  on  in 
side  his  head  as  plainly  as  though  its  working  were 
charted.  She  thought.  "He  has  his  mind  made  up 
to  propose  to  me  but  caution  tells  him  to  wait.  He 
isn't  quite  sure  of  his  business  yet.  He'd  really 
prefer  a  younger  woman  but  he  has  told  himself 
that  that's  foolishness.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  set 
tle  down.  He  thinks  I'm  not  bad  looking.  He  isn't 
crazy  about  me  at  all,  but  he  thinks  he  could  work 
himself  up  to  a  pretty  good  state  of  enthusiasm. 
He  didn't  have  what  they  call  his  'fling'  in  his  youth ; 
and  he  secretly  regrets  it.  If  I  wanted  to  I  could 
make  him  forget  his  caution  and  ask  me  to  marry 
him  right  now/' 

He  was  talking.  "I  haven't  said  much  about 
this  new  business  I'm  going  into.  I'm  not  a  fella 
that  talks  much.  Go  ahead  and  do  it,  I  always  say, 
and  then  you  don't  have  to  talk.  What  you've 
done'll  talk  for  you.  Yessir!" 

Lottie  looked  at  him — at  his  blunt  square  hands 
and  the  big  spatulate  thumbs — the  little  pouches 
under  his  eyes — at  the  thinning  hair  that  he  al 
lowed  to  grow  long  at  the  sides  so  that  he  could 
plaster  it  over  the  crown,  deceiving  no  one.  And 
she  thought,,  "This  is  a  kind  man.  What  they  call 


THE  GIRLS  257 

a  good  provider.  Generous.  Decent,  as  men  go. 
On  the  way  to  fairly  certain  business  success.  He'll 
make  what  is  known  as  a  good  husband.  You're 
not  so  much,  Lottie.  You're  an  old  girl,  with  no 
money;  nothing  much  to  look  at.  Who  are  you 
to  turn  up  your  nose  at  him!  You're  probably  a 
fool  to  do  it- 

" — not  an  iota  of  difference  to  me  what  other 
people  say  or  do.  I  do  what  I  think's  right  and 
that's  all  anybody  can  do,  isn't  that  true?"  He  was 
laboriously  following  some  dull  thought  of  his  own. 

Lottie  jumped  up  quickly — leapt  up,  almost,  so 
that  the  knitting  bounded  toward  him,  startled  him, 
as  did  her  sudden  movement.  "I'm  going  to  get 
the  infants,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "It's  time  we 
were  starting  back."  Even  as  he  stared  up  at  her 
she  was  off.  She  ran  through  the  little  wood,  down 
the  knoll  full  pelt,  across  the  field,  her  sturdy  legs 
flashing  beneath  her  short  skirt,  her  arms  out 
stretched.  Halfway  across  the  flower-strewn 
meadow  she  called  to  Jesse  and  Charley.  They 
stood  up.  Something  of  her  feeling  communicated 
itself  to  them.  They  sensed  her  protest.  They 
ran  to  m.eet  her,,  laughing;  laughing,  they  met, 
joined  hands,  circled  round  and  round,  straining 
away  from  each  other  at  arm's  length  like  three 
mad  things  there  in  the  May  meadow  until  with 


258  THE  GIRLS 

a  final  shout  and  whoop  and  high-flung  step  they 
dropped  panting  to  the  ground. 

Lottie,  still  breathing  fast,  was  the  first  to  rise. 
*"I  had  to,"  she  explained,  "or  bust." 

'"Sure,,"  said  the  poet  and  Charley,  together. 
Charley  continued.  "Lotta,  I'll  sit  in  the  front  seat 
going  home.  You  and  Jesse  can  get  chummy  in 
•ihe  back " 

'"Oh,  no — "  But  when  they  were  ready  to  go 
it  had,  somehow,  arranged  itself  in  that  way.  Char 
ley  invariably  gained  her  own  end  thus.  "Will  you 
let  me  drive  part  of  the  way,  Mr.  Gartz?  Please!" 

He  shook  a  worried  head.  "Why,  say,  I'd  like  to, 
Miss  Charley,  but  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand 
this  little  ol'  bus  of  mine.  I'm  afraid  I'd  be  nerv 
ous  with  anybody  else  running  it.  You'd  better  just 
let  me " 

But  in  the  end  it  was  Charley's  slim  strong  hands 
that  guided  the  wheel.  Ben  Gartz  sat  beside  her, 
tense,  watchful,  working  brakes  that  were  not  there. 
Under  the  girl's  expert  guidance  the  car  took  the 
hills  like  a  hawk,  swooped,,  flew,  purred.  "Say, 
you  better  slow  down  a  little,"  Ben  cautioned  her 
again  and  again.  Then,  grudgingly,  glancing  side 
ways  at  her  lovely  young  profile,  vivid,  electric,, 
laughing,  "You're  some  driver,  kid !" 

Lottie,  in  the  back  seat,  was  being  charmed  by 
Jesse  Dick.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  known  him  for 


THE  GIRLS  259 

years.  He  talked  little — that  is,,  he  would  express 
himself  with  tremendous  enthusiasm  on  a  topic 
so  that  you  caught  the  spark  of  his  warmth.  Then 
he  would  fall  silent  and  his  silence  was  a  glowing 
thing.  He  sat  slumped  down  on  the  middle  of  his 
spine  in  a  corner  of  the  seat.  He  rarely  glanced 
at  Charley.  His  eyes  flattered  Lottie.  She  found 
herself  being  witty  and  a. little  hard.  She  thought 
now:  "Here's  one  that's  different  enough.  And 
I  haven't  an  idea  of  what's  going  on  in  his  hand 
some  head.  Not  an  idea.  Not — "  she  giggled  a 
little  and  Jesse  Dick  was  so  companionable  that 
he  did  not  even  ask  her  what  she  was  laughing  at 
— "not  an  iota  of  an  idea." 

In  August  Lottie  accompanied  her  mother  and 
Aunt  Charlotte  up  to  one  of  the  Michigan  lake  re 
sorts.  They  went  there  every  summer.  The  food 
was  good,  the  air  superb,  the  people  typical  of  any' 
Michigan  first-class  resort.  Jeannette  had  gone  to 
spend  ten  days  in  a  girls'  camp  in  Wisconsin.  She 
had  a  job  promised  for  September.  The  Paysons 
had  a  three-room  cottage  near  the  hotel  and  under 
the  hotel's  management;  took  their  meals  in  the 
hotel  dining  room.  The  cottage  boasted  a  vine- 
covered  porch  and  a  tiny  garden.  The  days  were 
not  half  bad.  Mrs.  Pay  son  played  bridge  occa 
sionally.  Aunt  Charlotte  rocked  and  knitted  and 
watched  the  young  girls  in  their  gay  sweaters  and 


260  THE  GIRLS 

flat-heeled  white  shoes  and  smart  loud  skirts.  Lot 
tie  even  played  golf  occasionally,  when  her  mother 
and  Aunt  Charlotte  were  napping  or  resting,  or 
safely  disposed  of  on  their  own  cottage  porch  or 
hotel  veranda.  There  were  few  men  during  the 
week.  On  Fridays  husbands  and  fiances  swarmed 
down  on  train  and  boat  for  the  week-end.  On  Sat 
urday  night  there  was  a  dance.  Lottie,  sitting  on 
the  porch  of  their  little  cottage,  could  hear  the 
music.  Her  mother  and  Aunt  Charlotte  were  al 
ways  in  bed  by  ten- thirty,  at  the  latest.  Often  it 
was  an  hour  earlier  than  that.  The  evenings  were 
terrible  beyond  words.  Long,  black,  velvety  nights 
during  which  she  sat  alone  on  the  little  porch  guard 
ing  the  two  sleeping  occupants  of  the  cottage;  star 
ing  out  into  the  darkness.  The  crickets  cheeped 
and  chirped.  A  young  girl's  laugh  rang  out  from 
the  hotel  veranda  beyond.  A  man's  voice  sounded, 
low,  resonant,  as  two  quiet  figures  wound  their  way 
along  one  of  the  little  paths  that  led  down  to  the 
water.  A  blundering  moth  bumped  its  head  against 
the  screen  door.  A  little  group  of  hotel  kitchen- 
girls  and  dish-washers  skirted  the  back  of  the  cot 
tage  on  their  way  to  their  quarters,  talking  gut- 
turally.  The  evenings  were  terrible  beyond  words. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  Lottie  Payson's  last  August  of  that  sort. 
When  next  August  came  round  there  she  was 
folding  gauze,,  rolling  bandages,  stitching  pneu 
monia  jackets  with  the  rest  of  them  at  the  Michi 
gan  Avenue  Red  Cross  shop  and  thinking  to  her 
self  that  the  conversation  of  the  women  busy  about 
the  long  tables  or  at  the  machines  was  startlingly 
like  that  of  the  old  Reading  Club.  The  Reading 
Club  was,  in  fact,  there  almost  in  its  entirety.  The 
Girls'  faces,  framed  in  the  white  linen  folds  of  their 
Red  Cross  coifs,  looked  strangely  purified  and 
aloof.  Beck  Schaefer  alone  wore  her  cap  with  a 
certain  diablerie.  She  was  captain  of  her  section 
and  her  official  coif  was  scarlet.  She  looked  like 
Carmen  strayed  into  a  nunnery.  A  strange  new 
spirit  had  come  upon  Chicago  that  summer.  Peo 
ple  talked  high,  and  worked  hard,  prayed  a  good 
deal,  gave  their  money  away  liberally  and  did  not 
go  to  northern  Michigan  to  escape  the  heat.  Lottie 
sewed  at  the  Red  Cross  shop  three  days  every  week. 
Even  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  seemed  to  realize  that 
driving  about  the  parks  and  boulevards  on  sum 
mer  afternoons  was  not  quite  the  thing.  When 

261 


262  THE  GIRLS 

autumn  came  she  was  selling  Liberty  Bonds  in  the 
sure-fire  manner  of  a  professional.  As  for  great- 
aunt  Charlotte — the  hand  that  had  sewed  and  folded 
and  stitched  during  the  four  years  of  the  '6os  and 
that  had  fashioned  the  prize-winning  patchwork 
silk  quilt  in  the  '703  had  not  lost  its  cunning.  She 
knitted  with  a  speed  and  perfection  nothing  short 
of  miraculous,  turning  out  a  sweater  in  three  days, 
a  pair  of  socks  in  two.  The  dip,  bite,  and  recov 
ery  of  her  needles  was  machine-like  in  its  regu 
larity.  She  folded  and  rolled  bandages  as  well, 
having  enrolled  in  a  Red  Cross  shop  established 
in  the  parlours  of  a  near-by  hotel.  Even  Jeannette 
had  been  caught  by  the  spirit  of  the  new  order. 
Her  wage  as  stenographer  was  a  queenly  sum  these 
days ;  and  while  she  could  not  resist  silk  stockings, 
new  hats,,  expensive  blouses  and  gloves,  and  talked 
of  a  fur  coat  for  the  coming  winter  (every  self- 
respecting  stenographer  boasted  one  by  December) 
she  still  had  enough  left  to  contribute  freely  to 
every  drive,  fund,  association,  and  relief  commit 
tee  connected  with  the  war.  She  had  long  ago 
paid  back  the  hundred  dollars  to  that  Otto  who 
had  been  whisked  away  in  the  first  draft.  Even 
Hulda  in  the  kitchen  had  deserted  her  yards  of 
crochet  for  a  hank  of  wool.  Henry  Kemp  worked 
nights  as  a  member  of  the  district  draft  board. 
Charley  danced  in  benefits  all  the  way  from  Lake 


THE  GIRLS  263 

Forest  to  South  Chicago,  and  enrolled  as  Emer 
gency  Driver  for  Sunday  work.  Alone,  of  all  the 
family,  Belle  remained  aloof.  True,,  she  knitted 
now  and  then,  languidly.  But  the  Red  Cross  sew 
ing  gave  her  a  headache,  she  said;  the  excitement 
affected  her  digestive  disorder.  She  was  anti-war, 
anti-draft,  anti-Wilson. 

And  Ben  Gartz  thrived.  If  anyone  had  ever 
doubted  Ben  Gartz's  business  foresight  that  person 
was  forever  silenced  now.  On  every  martial  male 
left  arm — rookie  or  general,  gob  or  admiral — re 
posed  a  wrist  watch.  And  now  when  Ben  Gartz 
offered  Henry  a  plump  brown  cylinder  with  the 
customary  "Have  a  cigar!"  Henry  took  it  reluc 
tantly,  if  reverently,  eyed  its  scarlet  and  gold  belly- 
band  with  appreciation,  and  knew  better  than  to 
proffer  one  of  his  own  inferior  brand  in  return. 
"I'll  smoke  it  after  dinner/'  he  would  say,  and  tuck 
it  away  in  his  vest  pocket.  Henry  Kemp  had  aged 
in  the  last  year.  His  business  was  keeping  its  head 
barely  above  water  with  the  makeshift  of  American 
manufactured  products. 

It  had  been  during  the  winter  before  the  war — 
February,  1917 — that  Charley  Kemp  had  an 
nounced  one  evening  to  her  father  and  mother  that 
she  intended  to  marry  Jesse  Dick  when  she  was 
twenty.  That  would  be  in  June.  He  had  got  a 
job  as  feature  writer  with  the  Chicago  News  Bu- 


264  THE  GIRLS 

reau  and  he  was  acting  as  motion  picture  critic  for 
one  of  the  afternoon  papers.  His  comment  was 
caustic  but  highly  readable.  His  writing  in  this 
new  field  was  characterised  by  the  same  crude  force 
that  made  his  poetry  a  living  thing. 

"Well,  was  I  right  or  wasn't  I  ?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Payson  of  her  daughter  Belle.  "Talking  about  her 
five  children  like  a — like  a  hussy!" 

"Hussies  don't  have  five  children,"  Belle  retorted, 
meaninglessly. 

Mrs.  Payson  endeavoured  to  arouse  her  daughter 
to  the  necessity  for  immediate  action  against  this 
proposed  madness  of  Charley's.  "You've  got  to 
stop  it,  that's  all." 

"Stop  it  how?" 

"How!     By  forbidding  it,,  that's  how." 

Belle  could  even  smile  at  that.  "Oh,  mother, 
aren't  you  quaint !  Nowadays  parents  don't  forbid 
girls  marrying  this  man  or  that,  any  more  than 
they  lock  them  up  in  a  high  tower  like  the  princess 
What's-her-name  in  the  fairy  tale." 

"You  let  me  talk  to  her,,"  said  Mrs.  Carrie  Pay- 
son.  "I'll  do  a  little  plain  speaking." 

Her  plain  speaking  consisted  in  calling  Jesse  Dick 
a  butcher's  boy  and  a  good-for-nothing  scribbler 
who  couldn't  earn  a  living.  Charley  heard  her 
out,  a  steely  light  in  her  eyes. 

She  spoke  quietly  and  with  deadly  effect.  "You're 


THE  GIRLS  265 

my  grandmother,  but  that  doesn't  entitle  you  to 
talk  to  me  with  the  disrespect  you've  just  shown." 

"Disrespect !     To  you!     Well,  upon  my  word!" 

"Yes,  I  know  it  strikes  you  as  extraordinary.  If 
it  had  been  written  'Honor  thy  sons  and  thy  daugh 
ters'  along  with  'Honour  Thy  Father  and  Thy 
Mother'  there'd  have  been  a  lot  less  trouble  in  the 
world.  You  never  did  respect  your  own  people — 
your  own  family.  You've  never  shown  respect  to 
Lottie  or  to  mother,  or  to  father  or  to  Aunt  Char 
lotte,  for  that  matter.  So  why  should  I  expect 
you  to  respect  me.  I'm  marrying  Jesse  Dick  be 
cause  he's  the  man  I  want  to  marry.  I  may  be 
making  a  mistake  but  if  I  am  I'm  willing  to  pay 
for  it.  At  least  I'll  have  only  myself  to  reproach." 

"You  children  to-day  think  you  know  everything, 
but  you  don't.  You  wait.  You'll  see.  I  know." 

"No  you  don't.  You  didn't  know  when  you  mar 
ried.  You  thought  you  were  making  a  good  match 
and  your  husband  turned  out  to  be  a  good-for-noth 
ing  rogue.  I'm  sorry  to  hurt  you  but  you  make 
me  do  it.  If  I'm  wrong  I'll  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  I  went  into  it  with  my  eyes  open.  I 
know  all  Jesse  Dick's  weaknesses  and  I  love  them. 
Five  years  from,  now  he'll  be  a  famous  American 
poet — if  not  the  most  famous.  I  know  just  what 
he  needs.  He  needs  me,  for  one  thing.  In  time 
he  may  go  off  with  other  women " 


266  THE  GIRLS 

"Charley  Kemp  how  can  you  sit  there  and  talk 
like  that!" 

" — but  he'll  come  back  to  me.  I  know.  I'll  keep 
on  with  my  job  at  Shields'.  In  two  or  three  years 
Til  be  making  a  very  respectable  number  of  thou 
sands  a  year." 

"And  in  the  meantime  you'll  live  where.,  may  I 
ask?  Your  father's  in  no  position,  goodness  knows, 
to  have  a  poet  son-in-law  dumped  on  his  hands. 
Unless  you're  planning  to  live  in  the  rear  of  the 
delicatessen,  perhaps." 

"We've  got  a  three-room  cottage  in  Hubbard 
Woods.  Some  time,  when  you're  feeling  stronger, 
I'd  like  to  have  you  see  it.  It  belongs  to  Dorn, 
the  landscape  painter.  He  built  it  when  Hubbard 
Woods  was  a  wilderness.  It's  got  a  fireplace  that 
doesn't  draw  and  a  sink  that  doesn't  drain  and 
windows  that  don't  fit.  It's  right  on  the  edge  of 
the  big  ravine  and  the  very  thought  of  it  makes 
me  happy  all  over.  And  now  I'm  going  to  kiss  you, 
grandma,  which  I  think  is  awfully  sweet  of  me, 
all  things  considered,  you  dear  mistaken  old-fash 
ioned  darling."  Which  she  did,  on  the  tip  of  Mrs. 
Payson's  nose. 

At  the  word  "old-fashioned"  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson 
had  bristled ;  then,  inexplicably,  had  slumped  with 
out  voicing  a  word  in  her  own  defense.  She 
seemed  momentarily  uncertain,,  bewildered  almost. 


THE  GIRLS  267 

Still,  she  did  allow  herself  a  last  javelin.  "  'In  five 
years  he'll  be  a  famous  poet/  That's  a  sensible 
reason  for  marrying  a  man !  Huh !" 

"But  that's  not  my  reason,"  Charley  explained 
with  charming  good  humour,  "any  more  than  be 
cause  his  hair  is  sort  of  red  in  lights,  or  his  ears 
a  little  pointed,  or  his  hands  slim  and  brown  or  his 
ties  always  terrible." 

"What  is  your  reason?"  snapped  Mrs.  Payson. 
But  an  honest  curiosity  lighted  her  eye. 

"The  same  thing  strikes  us  funny  at  the  same 
time.  We  like  the  same  kind  of  book  though  we 
may  disagree  about  it.  We  like  to  be  outdoors  a  lot, 
and  we  understand  each  other's  language  and  we're 
not  sentimental  and  we  don't  snarl  if  food  is  delayed 
and  we  don't  demand  explanations,  and  any  one  of 
those  reasons  would  make  marriage  between  two 
people  a  reasonably  safe  bet." 

Mrs.  Payson  forced  herself  to  a  tremendous  ef 
fort.  "You  haven't  even  said  you're "  she 

gulped — "you're "  with  a  rush — "in  love  with 

him." 

"I  haven't  said  anything  else." 

But  next  June,  when  she  was  twenty,  Charley  was 
saying,  "But  a  man  who  won't  fight !" 

"I  haven't  said  I  won't  fight.  I  said  I  wouldn't 
enlist,  and  I  won't.  I  hate  war.  It's  against  every 


268  THE  GIRLS 

principle  I've  got.  If  I'm  drafted  I'll  go  into  the 
damn  thing  as  a  private  and  if  I  find  that  shooting 
a  gun  or  jabbing  a  bayonet  into  another  fellow's 
guts  is  going  to  stop  his  doing  the  same  to  me  I'll 
shoot  and  jab.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  fired  with  the 
martial  spirit  simply  because  a  European  nation, 
grown  too  big  for  its  clothes,,  tried  to  grab  off  a 
new  lot  and  failed  in  the  first  attempt." 

"I  believe  you're  afraid." 

"Of  course  I'm  afraid.  Any  man  who  says  he 
isn't  lies.  I  hate  living  in  filth  and  mud  and  lice  and 
getting  an  eye  shot  out.  But  that  isn't  my  reason 
for  not  going,  and  you  know  it.  I  won't  voluntarily 
further  this  thing." 

Charley  did  know  it.  She  knew,  too,  that  the  in 
stinct  that  made  her  want  to  send  her  man  to  war 
was  a  thing  of  low  derivation  yet  terribly  human. 
She  did  not  say,  definitely.  "I  can't  marry  a  man 
who  feels  as  you  do."  It  was  the  first  time  in  her 
life  that  she  had  lacked  the  courage  to  say  definitely 
the  thing  she  thought.  But  the  family  realised  that 
the  June  wedding  was  no  longer  a  thing  to  be  com 
bated.  June  came  and  went.  The  Hyde  Park 
Boulevard  apartment  had  not  known  the  young 
poet  for  a  month. 

Jesse  Dick  was  called  in  the  first  draft.  Charley 
kept  doggedly  at  her  work  all  summer,  riding  back 
and  forth  in  the  dirt  and  cinders  of  the  I.  C.  trains. 


THE  GIRLS  269 

It  was  a  summer  of  intense  heat.  Daily  Charley 
threatened  to  appear  at  Shields'  in  her  bathing  suit 
or  in  one  of  the  Greekest  of  her  dancing  costumes. 
But  it  was  surprising  to  see  how  roselike  she  could 
look  as  she  merged  after  dinner  in  a  last  year's  or 
gandie.  Everyone  was  dancing.  Sometimes  Char 
ley  went  to  the  Midway  Garden  at  the  entrance 
to  Washington  Park  or  over  to  the  old  Bismarck 
(now  known  as  the  Marigold  Gardens)  there  to 
dance  and  dine  outdoors  in  the  moonlight.  Always 
she  was  squired  by  a  dashing  blue-and-gold  or 
white  duck  uniform  from  the  Great  Lakes  Naval 
Training  Station,  or  olive-drab  and  shiny  tan  boots 
from  Fort  Sheridan. 

Jesse  Dick  came  home  just  before  he  sailed  for 
France.  He  wore  an  issue  uniform  which  would 
have  rendered  grotesque  a  Captain  Jinks  or  a  D'Ar- 
tagnan.  The  sleeves  were  too  short ;  the  collar  too 
large;  the  jacket  too  brief.  Spiral  puttees  wrapped 
his  slim  shanks.  Army  brogans — yellow — were  on 
his  feet. 

Bairns  father's  drawings  had  already  achieved  a 
popularity  in  America.  Charley  hung  between 
laughter  and  tears  when  Jesse  struck  a  pose  and 
said,,  "Alf." 

They  drove  to  the  Marigold  Gardens  on  the 
North  Side.  Jesse  had  not  sold  his  little  flivver. 
The  place  was  a  fairyland  of  lights,  music,  flower- 


270  THE  GIRLS 

banked  terraces.  Hundreds  were  dining  outdoors 
under  the  moonlight,  the  women  in  pale-coloured 
organdies  and  chiffons,  the  men  in  Palm  Beach 
suits  or  in  uniforms.  No  where  else  in  America 
could  one  find  just  this  sort  of  thing — nor,  for  that 
matter,,  in  Europe  even  in  the  days  before  the  war. 
In  a  city  constantly  referred  to  as  crude,  commer 
cial,  and  unlovely  there  flourished  two  garden  spots 
unique,  exquisite  and  unproclaimed. 

Jesse  ordered  a  dinner  that  brought  a  look  of 
wonder  to  the  face  of  the  waiter  (Swiss,  of  course) 
who  had  gauged  his  prospective  order  after  one 
glance  at  the  ill-fitting  issue  uniform,. 

"Dance?"  said  Jesse. 

"Yes."  They  danced,  wordlessly.  They  danced 
before  and  after  the  hors  d'ceuvres,  the  fowl,  the 
salad,  the  dessert,  the  coffee.  They  talked  little. 
The  boy  glanced  about  with  cold  wise  young  eyes. 
"God!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Charley  said,  as  if  in  answer  to 
a  long  speech,  "but  after  all  what  good  would  it  do 
if  they  all  stayed  home !  They're  probably  all  doing 
their  share.  They  hate  it  as  much  as  you  do.  Mop 
ing  won't  help." 

"Dance?" 

"Yes." 

They  rose  and  wound  their  way  among  the  little 
green  tables  to  the  dancing  platform.  Charley 


THE  GIRLS  271 

raised  her  eyes  to  his  as  they  danced.  "Will  you 
marry  me  to-morrow,  Jesse?  Before  you  go?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"That's  all  right  for  truck  drivers  and  for  sloppy 
emotionalists.  But  it's  a  poor  plan.  You're  only 
suggesting  it  because  of  the  music  and  my  nearness 
and  the  fact  that  I'm,  leaving  day  after  to-morrow. 
I'm  no  different  than  I  was  three  months  ago.  I 
hate  war  as  much  as  I  ever  did.  If  you  think 
three  months  of  camp  training " 

"Will  you  marry  me  to-morrow,  Jesse?" 

"No." 

"I'm  afraid,  Jesse." 

"So  am  I.  But  not  as  scared  as  that."  His 
cheek  rested  against  hers.  Her  fingers  clutched 
tight  a  fold  of  the  bunchy  cloth  of  his  rough  uni 
form.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  name  the 
fear  she  felt.  All  the  way  home  she  pressed  close 
to  the  rough  sleeve — the  good  tangible  rough  cloth 
of  the  sleeve — and  the  muscle-hard  arm  within  it. 

Hyde  Park  is  cut  through  by  the  Illinois  Central 
tracks.  All  that  summer  and  autumn  and  win 
ter  Charley  would  start  up  in  her  sleep  at  the 
sound  of  high  shrill  voices  like  the  voices  of  chil 
dren.  Lottie  Payson  heard  them,  too,  at  night  in 
the  old  house  on  Prairie  and  could  not  sleep  again. 
The  Illinois  Central  and  Michigan  Central  trains 


272  THE  GIRLS 

were  bringing  boys  to  the  training  camps,  or  from 
the  training  camps  to  the  points  of  embarkation. 
They  were  boys  from  Illinois  farms,  Wiscon 
sin  towns,  Minnesota  and  Michigan  villages. 
"Yee-ow!"  they  yelled  as  their  trains  passed 
through  the  great  sleeping  city.  "Whoo-ee !  Yip !" 
Keeping  their  courage  up.  Yelling  defiance  at  a 
world  gone  mad.  All  that  summer  you  heard  them, 
and  through  the  autumn  and  winter,  and  the  next 
spring  and  summer  and  autumn.  High  young 
voices  they  were,  almost  like  the  voices  of  children. 
"Berlin  or  Bust''  was  scrawled  in  chalk  on  the  out 
side  of  their  cars — scrawled  by  some  raw  youth 
from  Two  Rivers,  Wisconsin,  who  was  going  to 
camp  and  to  war  in  a  baseball  cap  and  his  Sunday 
pants  and  a  red  sweater. 

Charley  would  pull  the  covers  over  her  head  and 
cover  her  ears  with  her  hands  until  the  last  yip 
had  died  away.  But  Lottie  would  sit  up  in  bed  her 
head  thrown  back,  listening — listening  as  if  they 
were  calling  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE  Saturday  morning  Lottie,  just  returned 
from  marketing  with  her  mother,  answered 
the  telephone  and  recognised  with  difficulty  Beck 
Schaefer's  voice,  high-pitched  and  hysterical  as  it 
was. 

"Lot,  is  this  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Lot— Lot— listen.     Listen !" 

"I'm  listening." 

"Lot,  listen.  You  know  I've  always  liked  you 
better  than  any  of  the  other  girls,  don't  you? 
You're  so  sincere — so  sincere  and  fair  and  every 
thing.  You  know  that,  don't  you,  Lot?" 

"What's  the  matter,"  parried  Lottie. 

"Oh,  Lot  darling,  Sam  Butler  and  I — Sam — you 
know — Sam  and  I,  we're " 

"Not!" 

"Yes !  Oh,  Lottie,  isn't  it  wonderful !  This  aft 
ernoon.  Don't  breathe  it.  I'm  scared  to  death. 
Will  you  be  my  bridesmaid?  Lottie  dear.  Sam 
goes  to  Camp  Funston  to-morrow.  He's  got  a  cap 
taincy  you  know.  I'm  going  with  him.  We're  to 

273 


274  THE  GIRLS 

live  in  a  shack  with  a  tin  roof  and  they  say  it's 
hotter  than  hell  down  there  in  the  summer  and,  oh, 
Lottie,  I'm  so  happy!  We're  to  be  married  at  the 
parsonage — Dr.  Little.  Mother  doesn't  know  a 
thing  about  it.  Neither  does  Sam's  mother.  Sam's 
going  to  tell  his  mother's  companion  after  it's  all 
over  this  afternoon,  and  then  we'll  go  up  there.  I 
hate  to  think  .  .  .  Mama  said  she  wanted  to  go  to 
California  again  this  fall  because  it  was  going  to 
be  so  uncomfortable  here  this  winter,  and  Lottie, 
when  she  said  that  something  in  me  just  went  kind 
of  crazy  .  .  .  Can  you  hear  me?  I  don't  want  to 
talk  any  louder  ...  I  called  up  Sam  and  began  to 
cry  and  we  met  downtown  and  we  decided  to  get 
married  right  away  .  .  .  goodness  knows  I  don't 
deserve  .  .  .  and  oh,  Lottie,  I  feel  so  religious! 
You'll  come,  won't  you?  Won't  you!" 

Lottie  came. 

Beck  had  taken  a  room  at  the  Blackstone  Hotel 
and  there  she  had  packed,  written  letters,,  dressed 
for  her  wedding.  Lottie  joined  her  there.  Beck 
had  lost  her  telephone  hysteria  and  was  fairly  calm 
and  markedly  pale.  She  wore  a  taffeta  frock  and 
a  small  blue  hat  and  none  of  her  jewelry.  "I  haven't 
even  got  an  engagement  ring,"  she  said  almost  in 
triumph  to  Lottie.  "We  didn't  have  time.  Sam's 
going  to  buy  it  now — or  after  we're  married.  I 


THE  GIRLS  275 

spent  the  whole  morning  on  Michigan  Avenue, 
shopping.  Look." 

"How's  the  Camp  Funston  laundress  going  to 
handle  that,  Beck  dear?" 

"I  don't  care.  I  wanted  it  nice,  I've  waited  so 
long.  But  I'd  have  been  willing  to  go  away  with 
one  shirtwaist  and  a  knitted  union  suit,  honestly 
I  would.  It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference  to 
me.  I  got  back  here  at  twelve  and  had  a  bath  and 
a  bite  of  lunch  and  I  packed  and  dressed,,  and  then 
Lottie  I  knelt  down  by  the  bed  and  prayed.  I  don't 
know  why  I  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  exactly.  I  sup 
pose  because  that's  the  way  you  see  them  kneeling 
in  the  pictures  or  something.  But  anyway  I  liked 
doing  it.  Lot,  do  you  think  I'm  too  pale?  H'm? 
I  put  on  quite  a  lot  of  rouge  and  then  I  took  it  all 
off  and  now " 

A  message  from  the  hotel  office  announced  Sam. 
They  went  down.  With  Sam  was  a  nervous  and 
jocular  best  man,  Ed  Morrow.  They  drove  to  the 
minister's  study  adjoining  the  church.  It  was  an 
extremely  unbridal-looking  party.  Lottie,  in  her 
haste,  was  wearing  an  old  Georgette  dress  and  a 
sailor  hat  recently  rained  on  (no  one  was  buying 
new  clothes  these  days)  and  slightly  out  of  shape. 
The  best  man  waxed  facetious.  "Cheer  up,  Sam 
old  boy !  The  worst  is  yet  to  come."  He  mopped 
his  face  and  winked  at  Lottie. 


276  THE  GIRLS 

They  were  ushered  into  the  minister's  little  study. 
He  was  not  yet  there.  They  laughed  and  talked 
nervously.  There  was  a  warm-looking  bottle  of 
mineral  water  on  the  window  ledge ;  a  book-case  full 
of  well  bound  books  with  an  unread  look  about 
them;  a  bust  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher;  a  brown 
leather  chair  scuffed,,  dented,  and  shiny  with  much 
use;  a  little  box  of  digestive  tablets  on  the  flat- 
topped  desk.  Sam,  in  his  smartly  tailored  uniform, 
seemed  to  fill  the  room.  Beck  did  not  take  her  eyes 
from  him.  He  was  not  at  all  the  chubby  middle- 
aged  person  that  Lottie  had  known.  He  looked 
a  magnificently  martial  figure.  The  fact  that  he 
was  in  the  ordnance  department  did  not  detract 
from  the  fit,  cut,  and  becomingness  of  his  uniform. 

Dr.  Little  came  in,  a  businesslike  figure  in  gray 
tweed.  A  little  silence  fell  upon  the  four.  The 
wedding  service  began.  Dr.  Little's  voice  was  not 
the  exhorting  voice  of  the  preacher.  Its  tone,,  Lot 
tie  thought,  was  blandly  conversational.  All  of  a 
sudden  he  was  saying  "pronounce  you  man  and 
wife"  and  Lottie  was  kissing  the  bride  and  the 
groom  and  even  the  best  man  who,  immediately 
afterwood,  looked  startled  and  then  suspicious. 

Beck  had  a  calm  and  matronly  air.  It  had  de 
scended  upon  her,  complete,  like  an  all-enveloping 
robe. 

And  so  they  were  married.     After  it  was  over 


THE  GIRLS  277 

Lottie  went  back  to  the  Red  Cross  shop.  Three 
days  later  she  had  a  letter  from  Beck.  It  was  not 
one  of  the  remote  and  carefully  impersonal  letters 
of  the  modern  bride.  It  was  packed  with  all  the 
old-fashioned  terms  in  which  honeymoon  brides 
of  a  less  sophisticated  day  used  to  voice  their 
ecstasy. 

".  .  .  Most  wonderful  man  .  .  .  happiest  girl  in 
the  world  ...  I  thought  I  knew  him  but  I  never 
dreamed  he  was  so  ...  makes  me  feel  so  humble 
.  .  .  wonder  what  I  have  ever  done  to  deserve  such 
a  prince  among  .  .  ." 

Lottie  told  her  mother  and  Aunt  Charlotte  about 
it  that  evening  at  dinner.  It  was  very  hot.  Lottie 
had  been  ashamed  of  her  own  waspishness  and  irri 
tability  before  dinner.  She  attributed  it  to  the 
weather.  Sometimes,  nowadays,  she  wondered  at 
her  own  manner.  Was  she  growing  persnickety, 
she  asked  herself,  and  fault-finding  and  crabbed? 
It  seemed  to  her  that  the  two  old  women  were 
calmer,  more  tolerant,  less  fault-finding  than  she. 
She  was  the  crotchety  one.  It  annoyed  Lottie  to  see 
Aunt  Charlotte  munching  chocolates  just  before 
dinner.  "Oh,  Aunt  Charlotte,,  for  heaven's  sake! 
Can't  you  wait  until  after  dinner?  You  won't  eat 
a  thing." 

"It  doesn't  matter  if  I  don't,  Lottie,"  Aunt  Char 
lotte  returned,  mildly.  Aunt  Charlotte.,  at  seventy- 


278  THE  GIRLS 

five,  and  rapidly  approaching  seventy-six,  was 
now  magnificently  free.  She  defied  life.  What 
could  it  do  to  her !  Nothing  that  it  had  not  already 
done.  So  she  ate,  slept,,  talked  as  she  pleased.  A 
second  youth  seemed  to  have  come  upon  her. 

To-night,  after  Lottie's  story  of  Beck  Schaefer's 
marriage  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  had  said,  with  appar 
ent  irrelevance,  "I  won't  be  here  always,,  Lottie. 
Neither  will  Aunt  Charlotte."  A  little  pause,  then, 
"I  wish  you  were  settled,  too." 

Lottie  deliberately  pretended  to  misunderstand. 
"Settled,  mama !  My  goodness  I  should  think  I'm 
settled  enough !"  She  glanced  about  the  quiet  old 
room.  But  she  knew  what  her  mother  meant,,  and 
resented  it.  Settled.  Shelved.  Her  mother  was 
thinking  of  Ben  Gartz,  Lottie  knew. 

Amazing  things  had  happened  to  Ben  Gartz  in 
the  last  six  months.  He  had  sold  the  bus.  In  its 
place  was  a  long,  low,  smooth-running,  powerful 
gray  car  with  special  wheels  and  special  tires  and 
special  boxes  and  flaps  and  rods.  Ben  Gartz  was 
transformed  from  a  wistful,,  fusty,  and  almost 
shabby  middle-aged  bachelor  into  a  dapper  beau 
in  a  tailored  Palm  Beach  suit,  saw-edge  sailor,  and 
silk  hose.  He  carried  a  lemon-coloured  cane.  He 
had  two  rooms  at  an  expensive  Hyde  Park  hotel 
near  the  lake.  He  had  had  the  Paysons  and  the 
Kemps  to  dinner  there.  There  were  lamps  in  the 


THE  GIRLS  279 

sitting  room,,  and  cushions,  and  a  phonograph  with 
opera  records.  Ben  put  on  some  of  these  after  din 
ner  and  listened,  his  head  on  one  side.  He  said  it 
was  the  only  way  to  live — with  your  own  things 
around  you.  "My  books/'  he  said,  and  waved  a 
hand  toward  a  small  sectional  bookcase,  in  which 
thirty  or  forty  volumes  leaned  limply  against  each 
other.  One  or  two  had  slipped  down  and  now  lay 
supine  on  the  roomy  shelves.  Lottie  strolled  over 
to  the  bookcase  and  glanced  at  the  titles.  The  Mys 
tery  of  the  Purple  Shroud.  One  Hundred  Ways  to 
Use  the  Chafing  Dish.  Eat  and  Grow  Thin.  Ben 
Gartz's  waist  line  had  been  one  of  the  first  things 
about  him  to  register  a  surprising  change.  Though 
his  method  of  living  had  expanded  his  girth  had 
decreased.  He  made  no  secret  of  his  method.  "A 
Turkish  bath  once  a  week,"  he  said.  "No  sugar, 
no  butter,  no  sweets  or  starches  of  any  kind.  And 
I  feel  better  for  it.  Yessir!  I  never  felt  so  well 
in  my  life.  Sleep  better.  Walk  better.  Twenty- 
five  pounds  off  already  and  I'll  do  another  twenty- 
five  before  I'm  through.  I  don't  even  miss  the 
sugar  in  my  coffee.  I  used  to  take  saccharine.  Not 
now.  I  don't  even  miss  it.  Take  my  coffee  black. 
Got  so  now  I  think  you  miss  the  real  flavour  and 
spoil  it  using  sugar  and  cream." 

His  face  was  a  trifle  jaundiced  and  haggard,  one 
thought.    The  surprised  muscles  were  showing  their 


280  THE  GIRLS 

resentment  at  the  suddenly  withdrawn  supports  and 
cushions  of  fat. 

Ben  Gartz  loved  to  play  the  host.  He  talked 
about  the  War,  about  business,  about  Chicago's 
part  in  the  War,  about  his  own  part  in  it.  He  had 
bought  bonds,  sold  bonds,  given  to  this,,  that,  the 
other.  "Now  take  these  Eyetalians,  for  instance. 
How  long  do  you  suppose  they'd  held  out  against 
the  Austrians  ?  Or  the  French,  either,  for  that  mat 
ter  against  the  Germans?  They  were  just  about 
all  in,  now  I'm  here  to  tell  you."  His  conversa 
tional  facts  were  gleaned  from  the  front-page  head 
lines,  yet  he  expounded  them  with  a  fervour  and  an 
assurance  that  gave  them  the  effect  of  being  inside 
information. 

Of  all  his  listeners  Aunt  Charlotte  was  the  grim 
mest. 

"Wasn't  he  interesting  about  the  War?"  Mrs. 
Carrie  Payson  had  asked,  after  they  had  left. 

"About  as  interesting  as  a  bill-of-lading,"  Aunt 
Charlotte  had  snapped. 

Henry  Kemp  had  laughed  one  of  his  hearty 
laughs  so  rare  now.  "What  do  you  know  about 
bills-of-lading,  Aunt  Charlotte?"  ' 

"Not  a  thing,  Henry.  I  don't  even  rightly  know 
what  a  bill-of-lading  is.  But  it  always  sounded  to 
me  like  about  the  dullest  thing  in  the  world." 

Ben  Gartz  had  escorted  them  to  the  very  elevator 


THE  GIRLS  281 

and  had  said,  with  a  final  wave  of  the  hand,  just 
as  they  were  descending,  "Now  that  you've  found 
the  way,  come  often." 

Charley  and  Lottie,  looking  at  each  other,  had 
given  way  completely. 

Just  after  dinner,  on  the  evening  of  Beck  Schaef- 
er's  wedding  day,  Ben  Gartz  telephoned.  The 
telephone  call  had  followed  less  than  a  minute  after 
Lottie's  rebellious  thoughts  about  him.  "I  hope  my 
thinking  of  him  didn't  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  she  answered  the  telephone. 

Would  she  go  driving?  No,,  she  didn't  feel  like 
it.  Oh  come  on !  Do  you  good.  We'll  drop  in  at 
the  Midway.  There's  a  new  revue  there  that's  a 
winner.  She  pleaded  a  headache.  Then  it's  just 
what  you  need.  Won't  take  no  for  an  answer. 
She  went. 

She  wore  her  white  wash-satin  skirt  and  the  pink 
sports  coat  and  her  big  hat  and  looked  very  well 
indeed.  They  drove  to  the  Midway  Gardens  in 
Ben's  new  car.  Ben,  parking  the  car,  knew  the  auto 
starter.  "H'are  you,  Eddie."  He  knew  the  uni 
formed  doorman.  "H'are  you,  Jo."  He  knew  the 
head  waiter.  "H'are  you,  Al.  Got  a  nice  table 
for  me?" 

"Always  find  a  table  for  you,  Mr.  Gartz.  Yes, 
Mr.  Gartz."  Ben  surveyed  the  Gardens  largely 
from  the  top  of  the  terrace.  They  were  worth  sur- 


282  THE  GIRLS 

veying.  Your  Chicago  South  Side  dweller  bores 
you  with  details.  "Look  at  that !  Notice  anything 
queer  about  this  place  ?"  he  asks  you. 

You  survey  its  chaste  white  beauty.  "Queer? 
No.,  it's  lovely " 

"Not  a  curved  line  in  it!"  announces  the  South 
Sider,  largely.  "Frank  Lloyd  Wright  designed  it. 
Not  a  curved  line  in  it — roof,  balcony,  pillars,  stat 
ues — anywhere." 

Your  surprised  and  grateful  eyes  confirm  this 
boast  as  you  glance  about  at  the  scene  before  you. 

Ben  Gartz  was  fussy  about  his  table.  Near  one 
of  three  dancing  platforms — but  not  too  near. 
Near  the  music — but  not  too  near.  On  the  terrace 
where  one  could  see  and  be  seen — but  not  too  ex 
posed  to  the  public  gaze.  At  last  they  found  it. 

It  was  deliciously  cool  there  in  that  great  un 
roofed  space.  There  was  even  a  breeze,  miracu 
lously  caught  within  the  four  walls  of  the  Garden. 
They  ordered  iced  drinks.  There  was  a  revue,  be 
tween  the  general  dancing  numbers.  Ben  applauded 
this  revue  vigorously.  He  seemed  to  know  a  good 
deal  about  the  girls  who  took  part  in  it.  Very 
young  girls  they  were,  and  exquisitely  slim. 
Some  of  them  had  almost  the  angular  lines  of  ado 
lescence.  In  one  number  they  were  supposed  to 
represent  Light — Candle  Light,  Gas  Light,  Lamp 
Light,  Electricity,  Moonlight,  Sunlight,  Starlight. 


THE  GIRLS  283 

Their  costumes  were  bizarre,  scanty  to  a  degree 
that  would  have  been  startling  had  they  been  less 
young  and  reticent  of  flesh. 

"I  see  you've  got  a  couple  of  new  ones/'  Ben 
remarked  to  Albert,  the  head  waiter,  as  that  urbane 
individual  passed  their  table. 

"Yes,"  said  Albert;  and  again,  "Yes,"  in  order 
not  to  seem  less  than  unctuous. 

Lottie  said  to  herself,  "Oh,,  Lottie,  don't  be  so 
magnificent.  He  isn't  so  bad.  He's  enjoying  him 
self,  that's  all.  You're  just  a  middle-aged  old  gal 
who  ought  to  be  glad  of  the  chance  to  spend  a  cool 
evening  in  the  Midway  Garden,  drinking  claret  lem 
onade.  Glad  of  the  chance." 

But  she  wasn't. 

Ben  was  all  for  dancing,  of  course.  He  had  be 
come  amazingly  proficient  at  it,  as  does  your  plump 
middle-aged  playboy.  Lottie  liked  to  dance,  too. 
She  discovered  that  she  didn't  particularly  like  to 
dance  with  Ben,  though  he  was  light,  expert,  and 
skillful  at  avoiding  collisions  even  on  that  crowded 
floor.  Proximity  proved  him  moist,  soft,  and  pro 
tuberant. 

Seated  at  their  table  it  was  cool  arid  almost  rest 
ful.  A  row  of  slim  trees  showed  a  fairy  frieze 
above  the  tiled  balcony  that  enclosed  the  garden. 
The  lights  of  the  garden  fell  on  them  and  gave  them 
an  unreal  quality.  They  seemed  weird,  dazzling. 


284  THE  GIRLS 

Lottie  thought  they  looked  like  trees  in  a  Barrie 
fantasy.  She  opened  her  lips  to  utter  this  thought. 
Then,  "He  won't  know  what  I  mean/'  she  said  to 
herself.  Ben  was  eating  an  ice  out  of  a  tall  silver 
goblet.  "Take  a  fruit  ice  like  this/'  he  had  ex 
plained,,  "there's  nothing  fattening  in  it.  Now  ice 
cream,  that's  different.  Not  for  me.  Ice  is  all 
right,  though.  Raspberry  ice/' 

"Those  trees,"  said  Lottie,  and  nodded  toward 
them.  Ben  turned  heavily,  a  spoonful  of  raspberry 
ice  poised  halfway.  "They're  like  fairy  trees  in  a 
Barrie  play.  Fantastic." 

"Yeh,"  said  Ben,,  and  carried  the  laden  spoon  to 
his  mouth.  "Light's  bad  for  'em,  I  guess,  shining 
on  'em  that  way.  Look  how  yellow  the  leaves  are 
already." 

"There!"  shouted  Lottie,  not  aloud,  but  to  her 
inner  self.  "You  can't  expect  me  to  marry  a  man 
who  doesn't  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  can  you  ?" 

"What  are  you  smiling  at,,  you  little  rascal!" 
Ben  was  saying.  "Tell  me  the  joke." 

"Was  I  smiling?  I  didn't  know "  You  lit 
tle  rascal!  No  one  had  ever  called  Lottie  a  little 
rascal.  She  tried,  now,  to  think  of  herself  as  a 
little  rascal  and  decided  that  the  term  was  one  that 
Ben  had  found  useful,  perhaps,  in  conversation 
with  the  young  ladies  of  the  Light  revue.  She  did 
not  resent  being  called  a  little  rascal.  She  resented 


THE  GIRLS  285 

the  fact  that  Ben  could  not  see  the  absurdity  of 
applying  the  term  to  a  staid-appearing,  convention 
ally-dressed  rather  serious  woman  of  thirty-three  or 
-four.  She  thought  of  Beck.  Beck,  in  the  old  days, 
would  have  shaken  a  forefinger  at  him  and  said, 
"Will  you  never  grow  up,  you  bad  boy !"  Suddenly 
Lottie  felt  a  little  sick.  "Let's  go,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  mind?  I'm — I've  had  a  trying  day." 

On  the  way  home  Ben  grew  expansive.  "Some 
fellas  in  my  position  would  have  a  shofe  but  I  like 
to  drive  my  own  bus.  I  come  home  in  the  evening 
and  have  my  bath  and  my  dinner  and  go  out  in  the 
little  wagon  and  it  rests  me.  Yessir!  Rests  me 
.  .  .  I'm  thinking  of  moving  north.  A  little  flat, 
maybe,  and  a  housekeeper.  A  fella  gets  pretty  sick 
of  hotels." 

"That  would  be  nice.  Everyone  seems  to  be  mov 
ing  to  the  North  Side." 

"It's  the  place  to  live.  The  South  Side  is  getting 
worse  all  the  time — dirt,  and  the  I.  C.  smoke  and  all. 
And  now  that  they've  brought  all  these  niggers  up 
from  the  South  to  work  over  at  the  Yards  since  the 
war  it  isn't  fit  to  live  in,  that's  what.  Why,  look 
at  Grand  Boulevard !  Black  way  up  to  Forty-third 
Street.  All  those  old  houses.  It's  a  shame!" 

He  was  driving  with  one  hand,  expertly.  The 
other  was  hung  negligently  over  the  back  of  the 
seat.  Lottie  could  feel  it  touching  her  shoulder 


286  THE  GIRLS 

blades.  It  was  touching  them  so  lightly  that  she 
could  not  resent  the  contact  by  moving  slightly. 
Besides,  she  did  not  want  to  move.  She  had  a 
little  amused  curiosity  about  the  arm.  She  wanted 
to  know  what  it  would  do  next.  She  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  see  the  evening  through. 
She  smiled  to  herself  in  the  warm,  darkness.  She 
relaxed  a  little.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  held  it 
in  her  lap.  The  cool  breeze  on  her  brow  was  like 
a  drink  of  water  to  one  thirsting. 

They  were  driving  slowly  through  Washington 
Park  on  the  way  home.  Lottie  closed  her  eyes. 
How  deliciously  cool  it  was.  Her  bedroom  at 
home  would  be  hot,  she  thought.  It  faced  east, 
and  to-night  the  scant  breeze  was  from  the  west. 
The  car  stopped.  She  opened  her  eyes.  They 
were  parked  by  the  roadside  near  the  sunken  gar 
dens.  The  negligent  arm  behind  her  suddenly 
tightened  into  a  band  of  bone  and  muscle.  The 
loose-hung  hand  grasped  her  shoulder  tight  and 
hard.  Ben  Gartz  was  bent  over  her.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  smell  of  cigarettes  and  shaving  lo 
tion  and  whiskey  (he  had  had  a  highball  earlier  in 
the  evening).  Ben  Gartz  was  kissing  Lottie  with 
a  good  deal  of  vehemence  and  little  restraint  and 
no  finesse.  It  was  an  unexpected  and  open- 
mouthed  kiss,  mucous,  moist,  and  loathsome.  She 


THE  GIRLS  287 

didn't  enjoy  it.  Lottie  felt  besmeared,  befouled. 
Still,  she  did  none  of  those  statuesque  or  dramatic 
things  that  ladies  are  supposed  to  do  who  have  been 
unhandsomely  kissed  against  their  will.  For  that 
matter,,  it  had  not  been  against  her  will.  She  had 
not  expected  it,  true,  but  she  had  had  a  mild  and 
amused  curiosity  about  its  possibility.  She  was 
now  seized  with  a  violent  and  uncontrollable  shud 
der.  She  had  released  herself  with  a  push  of  her 
strong  hand  against  Ben's  chest.  Her  eyes  were 
wide  and  rather  staring.  She  wiped  her  mouth 
with  the  back  of  her  hand,  hard. 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  say,  Lottie,,  honestly,  you're  not  mad!  I 
don't  know  what  made  me  —  say,  on  the 
square " 

Lottie  put  on  her  hat.  "I'm  not  a  bit  angry, 
Ben.  I  just  want  to  go  home.  I'm  sleepy." 

But  he  refused  to  believe  her,  even  while  he 
shifted  gears  and  drove  home  at  a  sharp  clip 
through  the  almost  deserted  park  and  down  the 
boulevard.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  felt  she  should 
be  resentful.  "Say,  you  must  think  I'm  a  bum,, 
that's  what.  Why,  Lottie,  I  didn't  mean  anything. 
Why,  I  think  you're  one  of  the  grandest  girls  I 
know.  A  fine  girl.  There-  isn't  a  girl  I  respect 


more." 


288  THE  GIRLS 

"Do  you?"  She  said  nothing  more.  She  had 
nothing  to  more  to  say.  She  felt  calm,  and  almost 
happy.  It  was  as  though  that  kiss  had  cleansed 
her,  even  while  it  soiled.  She  sensed  that  he  was 
thinking  hard.  She  could  almost  hear  his  baffled 
mind  scurrying  about  for  words.  She  sensed,,  too, 
that  he  had  almost  spoken  of  marriage  but  had 
cautiously  thought  better  of  it  in  time. 

They  were  at  the  curb  outside  the  Prairie  Avenue 
house.  "Lottie,  you're  sore;  and  I  don't  blame  you. 
I'm  dead  sorry.  On  the  square.  I'm — say,  you'll 
prob'ly  never  speak  to  me  again."  He  was  as 
argumentative  as  though  he  had  trod  on  her  toe. 

She  smiled  as  she  turned  at  the  steps.  "I'm  glad 
you  kissed  me,  Ben.  I  didn't  like  it.  But  I'm 
glad  you  kissed  me." 

She  left  him  staring.  She  let  herself  into  the 
house,  ran  quietly  up  the  stairs  to  the  second  floor. 
She  went  into  the  bathroom  and  turned  on  the  cold 
water  faucet  and  washed  her  mouth  inside  and  out 
with  cold  water.  Then  with  listerine.  Then  she 
saw  a  bottle  marked  peroxide  and  took  a  mouthful. 
I  think  that  if  there  had  been  a  carbolic  in  the  house 
she  might  have  taken  a  gargle  of  that,  as  a  final 
cleanser,  in  her  zeal  to  be  rid  of  the  taste  of  the 
wet  red  kiss.  She  spat  forcefully  and  finally  now, 
made  a  wry  face  and  went  into  her  bedroom.  She 


THE  GIRLS  289 

took  off  her  clothes,  came  back  and  washed  with 
soap  and  a  rough  cloth,  brushed  her  hair,  put  on 
a  fresh  nightgown  and  went  to  bed. 

Lottie's  middle-aged  romance  with  Ben  Gartz  was 
over. 


CHAPTER  XV 

/T^HE  Paysons  and  the  Kemps,  together  with  the 
JL  rest  of  the  world,  were  to  be  tossed  about  now 
like  straws  in  a  storm.  But  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson,, 
reading  the  paper  next  morning  in  the  dining  room 
window,  after  breakfast,  was  the  dispassionately 
interested  spectator.  Though  this  was  a  manless 
household  it  received  its  morning  and  evening  paper 
regularly.  You  saw  Mrs.  Payson  in  that.  She 
had  no  patience  with  women  who  did  not  read  the 
newspapers.  Sometimes  when  Belle  said,  "What 
wedding?"  or  "What  murder?"  or  "What  sale?" 
Mrs.  Payson  would  exclaim,  "For  heaven's  sake, 
don't  you  read  the  papers !  How  do  you  expect  to 
know  what's  going  on!" 

Mrs.  Payson  knew  what  was  going  on.  She 
knew  the  price  of  coal,  and  the  whereabouts  of  the 
Cingalese  troops,,  and  the  closing  Steel  quotations, 
and  whether  duvetyne  was  going  to  be  good  this 
winter,  and  how  much  the  Claflin  estate  amounted 
to,  and  why  the  DeWitts  dropped  their  divorce  pro 
ceedings.  More  than  this,  she  read  aloud  extracts 
from  these  items  and  commented  thereon.  She  was 

290 


THE  GIRLS  291 

the  kind  of  woman  who  rarely  breakfasts  in  a  ki 
mono.  When  she  did  it  was  so  restrained  and  som 
ber  in  cut  and  colour  that  the  Nipponese  would  have 
failed  to  recognise  its  origin.  Her  white  hair  was 
primly  dressed.  Through  spectacles  worn  at  a  rak 
ish  angle  and  set  rather  low  down  on  her  nose  she 
surveyed  the  antics  of  the  world  and  pronounced 
upon  them  as  a  judge  upon  a  day's  grist  of  cases. 
To  one  who  preferred  to  get  the  first-page  news 
first-hand  it  was  a  maddening  practice. 

"I  see  they  predict  a  coal  famine.  I  don't  know 
what  we'll  do  in  this  house.  If  I  didn't  know  I'd 
practically  have  to  give  it  away  I'd  sell  and  move 
into  a  flat  out  south.  .  .  .  They're  going  to  wear 
those  capes  again  next  winter.  I  should  think 
they'd  freeze  in  'em.  Though  I  remember  we  used 
to  wear  them  altogether — dolmans,  we  called  them. 
I  see  your  friend  Winnie  Steppler  has  gone  to 
France  for  her  paper.  Woman  of  her  age!  I 
should  think  she'd  stay  home  .  .  .  H'm!  Ben 
Gartz  is  captain  of  the  Manufacturing  Jewelers' 
Liberty  Loan  committee  .  .  .  What  time  did  you 
come  in  last  night,  Lottie?  I  didn't  hear  you." 
Aunt  Charlotte,  breakfasting  across  the  table, 
looked  up. 

Lottie  poured  herself  another  cup  of  coffee.  She 
was  drinking  a  great  deal  of  coffee  lately;  using  it 
frankly  as  a  stimulant.  "About  midnight." 


292  THE  GIRLS 

"Did  you  have  a  nice  time?" 

"Interesting/'  Lottie  said,  gravely.  She  sensed 
that  her  mother  was  listening  intently  behind  the 
newspaper.  "Did  you  mean  what  you  just  said 
about  wanting  to  sell  the  house  and  moving  into  a 
flat  out  south?" 

Mrs.  Payson's  spectacles  showed,  half-moons,, 
above  the  paper's  horizon.  "I  might.  Hulda's 
going  to  marry  that  man.  He  doesn't  want  to  go 
to  war.  They  say  you  can't  get  a  girl  now  for  less 
than  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Fifteen!  Well!  I 
see  myself!  And  now  this  coal  shortage — and  a 
four-story  house.  Still,  we'd  need  a  pretty  big 
apartment." 

Lottie  made  her  tone  casual.  "You  ought  to 
marry  off  Jeannette — and  me." 

She  knew  that  Ben  Gartz  leaped  from  a  position 
of  doubt  to  one  of  hope  in  her  mother's  mind.  She 
knew,  too,  that  her  mother  could  no  more  force  her 
self  to  speak  of  this  hope  than  she  could  wear  a  pink 
silk  and  lace  negligee.  She  would  have  considered 
both,  somehow,,  indecent.  She  turned  a  page  of  the 
paper,  elaborately  careless.  "I'd  move  out  of  this 
barn  fast  enough  if  there  was  only  Charlotte  and 
me  to  keep  it  up  for." 

Lottie  laughed  a  little.  "You'd  have  to  have  a 
special  room  for  Ole  Bull,  and  your  walnut  bed  and 
the  hall  hatrack.  No  modern  flat " 


THE  GIRLS  293 

"I'd  sell  them.  For  that  matter,  I  might  even 
take  rooms  in  a  hotel,  and  give  up  housekeeping  al 
together.  It's  too  hard  these  days." 

"Why  mama,  you  talk  as  if  you  had  it  all  planned 
out!  You  know  perfectly  well  you  couldn't  get 
along  without  me." 

"Oh,  couldn't  I!  I'd  like  to  know  why  not! 
Jeannette  thinks  more  of  my  comfort  this  minute 
than  you  do."  She  folded  the  sheets  of  the  paper 
into  an  untidy  mass  and  slapped  the  crumpled  whole 
down  on  the  breakfast  table. 

"You  oughtn't  to  expect  Jeannette  to  act  as  a 
sort  of  unpaid  companion." 

"Companion !  I'm  not  in  my  dotage  yet.  I  don't 
need  a  companion,  paid  or  unpaid.  I  don't  need 
anybody  for  that  matter.  You're  not  so  terribly  im 
portant.  Don't  think  it.  I'd  manage  to  live  with 
out  you,  very  well." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that,,  mama?" 

At  her  tone  Mrs.  Payson  stopped,  one  hand  out 
stretched  toward  the  pantry  door.  "That  I  could 
get  along  without  you?  I  certainly " 

"That  if  I  hadn't  been  here  to  run  the  electric 
and  take  you  to  market  and  shopping  when  you  or 
Aunt  Charlotte  needed  clothes,  or  hats,  or  corsets 
— you  wouldn't  have  missed  me  ?  All  these  years  ?" 

"I'd  have  got  along.     So  would  your  Aunt  Char- 


294  THE  GIRLS 

lotte.  Nobody's  so  important  that  the  world  can't 
get  along  without  them.  I'd  have  managed." 

"I  suppose  you  would,"  Lottie  said,  dully.  "I 
suppose  you  would." 

Her  mother  passed  into  the  kitchen.  Aunt  Char 
lotte.,  across  the  table,  reached  for  the  mangled 
newspaper  and  began  to  smooth  it  out  sheet  by 
sheet,  and  to  fold  it  painstakingly  into  its  original 
creasings.  At  the  apprehensive  look  in  her  eyes 
Lottie  smiled  reassuringly,  got  up  and  came  round 
to  her.  She  patted  the  shrivelled  cheek.  "Don't 
look  so  disappointed  in  your  maiden  niece,  Charlotte 
Thrift.  She  isn't  as  desperate  as  that.  Don't 
think  it." 

"Well,  just  for  a  minute "  there  was  relief 

in  her  voice — "I  thought — but  you've  got  some  plan 
in  your  head?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  let  anybody  stop  you  then,  whatever  it  is. 
Don't  let  anybody  stop  you.  It's  your  last  chance, 
Lottie." 

The  pantry  door  swung  open.  "What's  her  last 
chance?"  demanded  Mrs.  Payson,  entering.  She 
had  a  way  of  making  timely — or  untimely — en 
trances  with  the  precision  of  a  character  in  a  badly 
written  play. 

"Oh,  nothing."  Aunt  Charlotte  smiled  and  nod 
ded  coquettishly  and  her  sister  thought  of  Ben 


THE  GIRLS  295 

Gartz,  as  Aunt  Charlotte  had  meant  she  should. 
Lottie  knew  this.  At  the  knowledge  a  hot  little 
flame  of  wrath  swept  over  her. 

Then  for  three  weeks  the  household  went  about 
its  business.  Lottie  sewed  at  the  Red  Cross  shop ; 
Aunt  Charlotte  knitted ;  Mrs.  Payson  talked  Liberty 
Bonds,  managed  her  household,  protested  at  the  in 
creased  cost  of  living,  berated  Belle  for  what  she 
termed  her  extravagance,  quizzed  Henry  about  his 
business  at  the  Friday  night  family  dinner.  At  the 
end  of  the  month  Hulda  left  to  marry  her  unmartial 
Oscar.  Though  she  and  Mrs.  Payson  had  carried 
on  guerilla  warfare  for  years,  Hulda,,  packing  her 
trunk,  wept  into  the  crochet-edged  trousseau  and 
declared  that  Mrs.  Payson  had  been,  of  all  mis 
tresses,  the  kindest.  Mrs.  Payson,  on  her  part,  fac 
ing  the  prospect  of  breaking  in  a  pert  new  incompe 
tent  at  a  weekly  wage  far  beyond  that  of  the  de 
parting  and  highly  capable  Hulda,  forgave  her 
everything,  including  her  weakness  for  coffee.  She 
even  plied  her  with  a  farewell  cup  of  that  black 
brew  as  Hulda,  dressed  for  departure,,  sat  waiting 
red-eyed  in  the  kitchen  for  the  drayman. 

With  the  advent  of  a  new  maid  Jeannette  began 
to  take  her  meals  with  the  family.  Somehow  the 
kitchen  was  no  longer  the  place  for  Jeannette.  She 
had  acquired  a  pretty  manner,  along  with  a  certain 
comeliness  of  feature  and  figure.  It  had  been  a 


296  THE  GIRLS 

sudden  blossoming.  Hers  were  the  bright-eyed  as 
surance,  the  little  upward  quirk  at  the  corners  of 
the  mouth,  the  preenings  and  flutterings  of  the 
duckling  who  is  transformed  miraculously  into  a 
swan.  Jeannette  had  a  "boy  friend."  Jeannette 
had  invitations  for  every  night  in  the  week  (cen 
sored  by  Mrs.  Payson).  Jeannette  went  to  the  War 
Camp  Community  dances  on  Saturday  nights  at  the 
Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Club  and  was  magically  trans 
formed  from  a  wall-flower  into  a  rose.  Jeannette,, 
the  erstwhile  plain,  bloomed  into  beauty — the  beauty 
that  comes  of  being  told  one  is  beautiful  and  desir 
able.  She  danced  expertly  and  gracefully  (private 
sessions  with  Charley  had  accomplished  this)  and 
she  had  endless  patience  with  the  wistful  lads  from 
the  near-by  naval  training  station  and  camps  who 
swarmed  into  the  city  on  leave,  seeking  diversion 
where  they  could  find  it.  At  these  carefully  super 
vised  Community  affairs  Jeannette  danced  with  boys 
from  Texas  and  boys  from  Massachusetts;  boys 
from  Arizona  and  Kansas  and  Ohio  and  Washing 
ton.  But  though  she  danced  with  them  all  with 
indefatigable  patience  and  good-humour  it  was  Ne 
braska's  step  that  perfectly  matched  her  own  after 
the  first  few  weeks  and  it  was  Nebraska  who  took 
her  home  at  a  gallop  in  order  not  to  overstay  his 
shore  leave.  Nebraska  was  an  embryo  ensign.  He 
talked  of  the  sea  as  only  a  boy  can  who  has  known 


THE  GIRLS  297 

but  the  waves  of  the  wheat  rippling  before  the  wind 
across  miles  of  inland  prairie.  When  Lottie  sug 
gested  that  Jeannette  invite  Nebraska  to  dinner  on 
Sunday  Mrs.  Payson,  surprisingly  enough,  agreed. 
They  made  conversation. 

"And  where  is  your  home?" 

"I'm  from  Nebraska,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  Nebraska!" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"How  do  you  like  Chicago?" 

"I  like  it  fine."  A  quick  glance  at  Jeannette. 
"Everybody  here  is  certainly  grand." 

Now  that  Jeannette  was  regularly  at  dinner  the 
silences  that  had  tortured  Lottie's  nerves  were  ban 
ished  quite.  The  girl  chattered  endlessly  but  engag 
ingly,  too.  One  of  the  girls  at  the  office  had  gone 
and  got  married  during  the  noon  hour — did  you  see 
the  parade  on  Michigan  to-day  ? — that  actress  with 
the  Liberty  Loan  speaker  at  the  corner  of  Monroe 
and  State  had  given  a  signed  pKotograph  with  every 
bond  purchased — there  was  a  fur  coat  in  Olson's 
window  for  only  one  hundred  and  fifty — all  the 
girls  were  going  to  buy  those  short  fur  coats  this 
winter. 

"Mercy  on  us!"  from  Aunt  Charlotte.  Jean 
nette  and  Aunt  Charlotte  were  great  friends.  Aunt 
Charlotte's  room  had,  for  Jeannette,  something  of 
the  attraction  of  a  museum.  In  it  were  all  those 


298  THE  GIRLS 

treasures  accumulated  by  a  lonely  woman  through 
out  almost  half  a  century  of  living  in  one  house. 
Ribbons,  flowers,  buttons,  photographs,  scraps  of 
lace,  old  hats,  mounds  of  unused  handkerchiefs  and 
bottles  of  perfume  and  boxes  of  time-yellowed  writ 
ing  paper  representing  the  birthdays  and  Christ- 
mases  of  years;  old  candy  boxes;  newspaper  clip 
pings;  baby  pictures  of  Lottie,  Belle,  Charley;  fam 
ily  albums.  There  was  always  a  bag  of  candy  of 
the  more  durable  sort — hard  peppermints,,  or  fruit 
drops.  And,  treasured  of  all,  the  patchwork  silk 
quilt.  When  Belle  and  Lottie  were  little  girls  the 
patchwork  quilt  had  been  the  covering  of  convales 
cence  during  the  milder  periods  of  childhood  indis 
positions.  At  very  sight  of  its  prismatic  folds  now 
Lottie  was  whisked  back  twenty-five  years  to  days 
of  delicious  languor  on  the  sitting  room  sofa,  the 
silk  quilt  across  her  knees,  cups  of  broth  and  quiv 
ering  rosy  gelatines  to  tempt  the  appetite,  and  the 
button  box  for  endless  stringing  and  unstringing. 

To-day,  as  Lottie  passed  Aunt  Charlotte's  room 
just  before  dinner  she  saw  her  sitting  by  the  window 
with  the  silk  quilt  in  her  lap.  Of  late  it  had  been 
packed  away  in  one  of  the  room's  treasure  boxes 
and  brought  out  only  for  purposes  of  shaking  and 
dusting. 

Lottie  entered  and  stood  over  Aunt  Charlotte  as 
she  sat  there  in  her  chair  by  the  window  looking 


THE  GIRLS  299 

out  on  the  ornate  old  houses  across  the  way.  "I 
haven't  seen  it  in  years."  She  passed  her  fingers 
over  the  shining  surface  of  the  silk  and  satin. 
Frayed  squares  and  triangles  marred  many  of  the 
blocks  now.  A  glistening  butterfly  still  shone  in 
yellow  silk  in  one  corner ;  a  spider  wove  an  endless 
web  in  another.  Time  had  mellowed  the  vivid 
orange  and  purple  and  scarlet  and  pink  until  now 
the  whole  had  the  vague  softness  and  subdued  gleam 
of  an  ancient  Persian  carpet  or  an  old  cathedral 
window. 

Aunt  Charlotte  looked  down  at  it.  One  tremu 
lous  finger  traced  the  pattern  of  wheels  and  circles 
and  blocks.  "I  always  thought  I'd  give  it  to  the 
first  one  of  the  family  that  married.  But  Belle — 
of  course  not,  in  that  grand  apartment.  For  awhile 
I  thought  Charley  and  that  young  lad — I'd  have 
liked  to  tell  them  how  I  came  to  make  it.  The  boy 
would  have  liked  to  hear  it.  Jesse  Dick.  He'd 
have  understood.  But  he's  gone  to  war  again.  Jesse 
Dick  has  gone  to  war  again.  Oh,  dear!  Why 
didn't  Charlotte  marry  him  before  he  went?" 

"She's  wandering  a  little,"  Lottie  thought,  with 
a  pang.  "After  all,  she's  very  old.  We  haven't 
realised."  Aloud  she  said,  smiling,  "And  how 
about  me,  Charlotte  Thrift?  You're  forgetting 
your  old  niece  entirely." 

"No,  I  haven't  forgotten  you,  Lottie.     I  think  I 


300  THE  GIRLS 

got  it  out  because  of  you  to-day.  A  curious  feel 
ing.  Something's  going  to  happen.  I've  lived  a 
long  time,  Lottie.  Nearly  seventy-six  years. 
Old  maids  usually  don't  live  that  long.  Did  you 
know  that?  Short-lived,  they  are — unmarried 
women.  Here  I  am,  nearing  seventy-six.  And 
every  now  and  then  I  get  the  feeling — that  unsettled 
feeling  as  if  something  might  still  happen  in  my 
life.  I  don't  know.  It's  like  listening  for  a  bell  to 
ring.  Something's  going  to  happen." 

Lottie  looked  at  her  strangely,  almost  fearfully. 
She  stooped,  suddenly,  and  gathered  Aunt  Charlotte 
and  the  silk  quilt  into  her  arms.  "Oh,  Aunt  Char 
lotte  !  Aunt  Charlotte !  I've  done  something  ter 
rible.  I'm  scared,  I'm " 

"Lot-tie!"  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "Lottie! 
What's  the  matter  with  you  and  Aunt  Charlotte! 
Dinner's  waiting." 

"You  don't  say !"  Aunt  Charlotte  stood  up  fac 
ing  Lottie,  suddenly  alert,  vitalised.  "You  don't 
say!"  Something  about  the  commonplaceness  of 
her  expression  of  approval  seemed  to  restore  Lot 
tie's  balance.  "Don't  let  her  scare  you.  They  al 
ways  try  and  if  you're  weak  you  give  in.  But  don't 
you.  Don't  you!"  A  sudden  suspicion — "It  isn't 
that  pink  fat  man !" 

"Ben?     No.     It's   something   I   never   thought 


THE  GIRLS  301 

"What's  it  matter?  Only  don't  give  in."  She 
propelled  her  almost  fiercely  ahead  of  her  to  the 
stairway  and  down  to  the  dining  room.  It  was  as 
though  she  feared  Lottie  would  change  her  mind  if 
they  paused  on  the  wray.  All  through  dinner  Aunt 
Charlotte  glowed  and  beamed  upon  her.  Occasion 
ally  she  shook  her  head  vehemently  to  convey  en 
couragement  to  the  silent  Lottie. 

Jeannette  was  full  of  plans  for  the  evening.  "If 
we  don't  start  early  we  won't  get  there  in  time  for 
the  first  show  and  then  we'll  have  to  stand  and  wait. 
They  say  it's  a  wonderful  picture.  The  man  who 
takes  the  part  of  the  Kaiser  looks  exactly  like  him." 
Evidently  she  and  Mrs.  Payson  were  going  Hun- 
ning  among  the  films. 

Aunt  Charlotte  looked  up  from  her  dessert.  "I 
thought  you  wanted  me  to  show  you  that  new  block 
stitch  this  evening."  Jeannette's  knitting  was 
more  ambitious  than  expert. 

"I  do.  But  I've  got  a  date  with  my  girl  friend 
to  go  to  the  movie  first."  She  grinned  at  the  stately 
white-haired  companion  of  her  revels  and  the  two 
giggled  like  school  girls.  Jeannette's  rollicking 
peasant  humour  appealed  to  Mrs.  Payson.  She 
seemed  to  draw  new  life  from  the  abounding  health 
and  spirits  of  Jeannette. 

They  had  eaten  their  dessert.  In  another  mo 
ment  they  would  leave  the  table.  Jeannette  and 


302  THE  GIRLS 

Mrs.  Payson  would  get  their  wraps  and  clank  off 
in  the  old  electric  toward  the  Arcadia.  Lottie  sat 
back  in  her  chair  and  gave  a  little  indrawn  gasp 
like  a  swimmer  who  plunges  into  icy  water. 

"I  had  my  first  inoculation  to-day,  and  my  vac 
cination." 

The  minds  of  the  three  other  women  at  the  table, 
busy  with  their  own  small  projects,,  refused  to  grasp 
the  meaning  of  this  statement  thrust  so  suddenly 
upon  them.  "Vaccination?''  Mrs.  Payson  had 
caught  this  one  familiar  word  and  now  held  it  dully, 
awaiting  an  explanation. 

"I'm  going  to  France  two  weeks  from  to-day," 
said  Lottie.  She  braced  herself,  one  hand  clutch 
ing  her  napkin  tight  as  if  that  would  sustain  her. 

But  there  was  no  storm.  Not  yet.  Mrs.  Carrie 
Payson's  will  refused  to  accept  the  message  that  her 
ears  had  flashed  to  her  brain. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Lottie,"  she  said.  She  brushed 
a  cooky  crumb  from  the  front  of  her  waist. 

Lottie  leaned  forward.  "Mama,  don't  you  un 
derstand?  I'm  going  to  France.  I'm  going  in  two 
weeks.  I've  signed.  It's  all  arranged.  I'm  going. 
In  two  weeks." 

"Oh  golly!"  cried  Jeannette,  "how  perfectly 
grand !"  Aunt  Charlotte's  hand  was  weaving  ner 
vous  palsied  circles  on  the  tablecloth,  round  and 
round.  She  champed  her  teeth  as  always  when  she 


THE  GIRLS  303 

was  terribly  excited.  But  Mrs.  Payson  sat  sud 
denly  waxen  and  yellow.  You  saw  odd  lines  etched 
in  her  face  that  had  not  been  there  a  moment  before. 
She  stared  at  Lottie.  The  whites  of  her  eyes 
showed  below  the  iris. 

"This  is  a  stroke/'  Lottie  said  to  herself  in  a  mo 
ment  of  hideous  detachment.  "She's  going  to  have 
a  stroke,  and  I've  done  it." 

The  red  surged  up  into  Mrs.  Payson's  face. 
"Well,  you're  not  going,  that's  all.  You're  not 
going." 

"Yes  I  am,  mama,"  Lottie  said  then,  quietly. 

"And  I  say  you  won't.  France!  What  for! 
What  for!" 

Aunt  Charlotte  stood  up,  her  face  working,  her 
head  shaking.  She  pointed  a  lean  aspen  finger  at 
her  sister.  "Carrie  Thrift,  don't  you  stand  in  the 
way  of  her  going.  Don't  you !  Don't  you !" 

Even  then  Mrs.  Payson's  middle-class  horror  of 
being  overheard  by  the  servant  in  the  kitchen  tri 
umphed  over  her  anger.  "Come  on  into  the  sitting 
room.  I'm  not  going  to  have  that  girl  listening." 
She  went  to  the  swinging  door.  "We're  through, 
Liela.  You  can  clear  off."  She  eyed  the  girl 
sharply  before  the  door  swung  back. 

They  marched  into  the  sitting  room  in  silence. 

In  the  two  weeks  that  followed  Mrs.  Payson  never 
once  relaxed  her  opposition.  Yet  she  insisted  on 


304  THE  GIRLS 

accompanying  Lottie  throughout  the  orgy  of  shop 
ping  that  followed — scouring  the  stores  for  such 
commonplace  articles  as  woollen  stockings,  woollen 
underwear,  heavy  shoes,  bed  socks,  flannel  bloomers, 
soap,  hot  water  bag,  candles,  sugar,  pins,  needles. 
Sometimes  her  mother  barely  spoke  to  Lottie  for 
hours.  Yet  strangely  enough,  Lottie  had  twice 
heard  her  say  to  a  sympathetic  clerk  when  she  did 
not  know  Lottie  was  listening:  "Yes,  they  are  for 
my  daughter  who's  going  to  France.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
is  hard,  but  we've  got  to  do  our  share."  There 
had  even  been  a  ring  of  pride  in  her  voice.  Lottie 
heard  her  speaking  at  the  telephone.  "We'll  miss 
her;  but  they  need  her  more  than  we  do/'  One 
could  almost  call  it  bragging. 

She  had  a  strangely  detached  feeling  about  it  all. 
When  Henry  spoke  gravely  of  U-boats  she  felt  im 
mune,  as  when  one  hears  of  typhus  in  China.  This 
person  who  was  going  to  France  was  not  Lottie 
Payson  at  all — Lottie  Payson,  aged  thirty-three,  of 
Prairie  Avenue,  Chicago,  Illinois.  This  was  some 
new,,  selfish,  driven  being  to  whom  all  the  old  famil 
iar  things  and  people — the  house,  the  decrepit  elec 
tric,  Aunt  Charlotte,  her  mother,  Emma  Barton — 
were  remote  and  inconsequential. 

She  and  Charley  had  had  one  brief  honest  mo 
ment  together.  "I  wanted  to  go  too,"  Charley  had 
said.  "I  do  still.  But  I'm  not  going.  I  want  to 


THE  GIRLS  305 

see  Jesse.  I  want  him  so  much  that  sometimes  I 
find  myself  doing  things  that  I  thought  only  women 
in  novels  did.  Stretching  out  my  arms  to  him  in 
the  dark.  .  .  .  The  girls  of  my  sort  who  are  going 
are  going  for  the  excitement  of  it — for  the  trip, 
you  might  almost  say.  Oh,  I  know  a  lot  of  wromen 
— thousands — are  moved  by  the  finest  kind  of  pa 
triotism.  But — well,  for  example,  that  pretty 
Olive  Banning  who's  in  our  advertising  department. 
She's  going.  She  says  all  the  men  are  over  there." 

The  night  before  leaving,  Lottie  Payson  suffered 
that  agony  of  self-reproach  and  terror  which  unac 
customed  travellers  feel  who  are  leaving  all  that  is 
dear  and  safe  and  familiar.  She  lay  there  in  bed 
in  her  quiet  room  and  great  waves  of  fear  and  dread 
swept  over  her — not  fear  of  what  she  was  going  to. 
but  of  what  she  was  leaving  behind. 

She  sat  up  in  bed.  Listened.  If  only  she  might 
hear  some  sound  to  break  the  stillness — the  grinding 
of  a  Cottage  Grove  avenue  car — the  whistle  of  an 
Illinois  Central  train.  Suddenly  she  swung  her  legs 
over  the  side  of  the  bed,  thrust  her  feet  into  slip 
pers  and  stole  down  the  hall  to  her  mother's  room. 
She  wanted  to  talk  to  her.  She'd  be  awake ;  awake 
and  sitting  up,  alone  and  fearful,  just  as  she  herself 
was.  Her  mother's  door  was  open.  The  room  was 
dark,  quite.  Lottie  peered  in,  sure  of  a  little  breath 
less  silence  that  should  precede  her  mother's  whis- 


306  THE  GIRLS 

pered,  "Is  that  you,  Lottie?"  But  from  within  the 
room  came  a  sleeper's  breathing,  deep,  full,  regular. 
Her  mother  was  asleep.  Her  mother  was  asleep! 
The  knowledge  hurt  her,  angered  her.  She  ought 
to  be  awake — awake  and  fearful.  Lottie  leaned 
against  the  doorsill  and  pitied  herself  a  little.  An 
occasional  strangled  snore  came  from  the  bed.  "I 
should  have  gone  years  ago/'  Lottie  told  herself. 

She  turned  back  to  her  room,  not  taking  the 
trouble  to  tiptoe  now.  Past  Aunt  Charlotte's  room. 

"Lottie!     Is  that  you?" 

Lottie  groped  in  the  darkness  for  the  bed  and  that 
shrill  whisper.  "Yes.  I — I  couldn't  sleep. " 

"I  should  think  not.  Come  here  to  Auntie."  That 
was  what  she  had  always  said  in  the  first  years, 
long  ago,  when  Lottie  and  Belle  were  children, 
afraid  or  hurt.  "Come  here  to  Auntie."  Her 
hand  was  on  Lottie's  shoulder,  warm,  and  comfort 
ing.  "Child  alive,  you  haven't  got  a  thing  around 
you!  Here,  get  the  silk  quilt.  It's  over  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  I  didn't  put  it  away." 

"I've  got  it."  Lottie  hunched  it  gratefully  about 
her  chilly  shoulders.  They  were  talking  in  guilty 
whispers.  Lottie  huddled  at  the  side  of  the  bed. 
"I  can't  go,  Aunt  Charlotte.  I  can't  go." 

'"Fiddlesticks!     That's  the  middle  of  the  night 
talking.     Wait  till  you've  had  a  cup  of  coffee  at 


THE  GIRLS  307 

eight  to-morow  morning  and  see  how  you  feel  about 
going." 

Lottie  knew  she  was  right.  Yet  she  must  justify 
her  own  terror.  "It  isn't  fair  to  Jeannette.  I've 
been  thinking  of  her." 

Great-aunt  Charlotte  snickered  a  little.  "Never 
you  mind  about  Jeannette." 

"But  I  do.  I  brought  her  here.  I'm,  respon 
sible " 

"Listen  to  me,  Lottie.  I  went  up  to  Jeannette's 
room  a  few  nights  ago  to  bring  her  that  little  brooch 
I  gave  her.  The  garnet  one.  She  was  standing  in 
front  of  the  mirror  in  her  nightgown — don't  say 
a  word  to  your  ma — you  know  how  Jeannette  al 
ways  brushes  her  hair  and  leaves  it  loose  when  she 
goes  to  bed?  Well,  there  she  was,  doing  it  differ 
ent  ways  to  see  which  was  most  becoming  in  bed. 
I  saw  her.  And  tying  it  with  a  big  pink  bow." 
She  snickered  again,  wickedly. 

"Why  Aunt  Charlotte  Thrift?" 

"Yes  ma'am!  She'll  probably  marry  that  boy 
before  he's  off  for  service.  And  stay  right  on 
here  until  he  comes  back.  So  don't  you  worry  about 
her  being  a  human  sacrifice,  Lottie  Payson.  It's 
the  Jeannettes  that  make  the  world  go  round.  They 
don't  stop  to  think.  They  just  act." 

Lottie  went  back  to  bed  feeling  reassured,  almost 


308  THE  GIRLS 

light-hearted.     Next    morning    at    breakfast    her 
mother  said,  "I  didn't  close  my  eyes  all  night." 

They  made  a  good-sized  group  at  the  station. 
Her  mother,  Aunt  Charlotte,  Jeannette,  Belle, 
Henry,  Charley,  of  course.  Then,  all  The  Girls. 
And  Emma  Barton  was  there.  Winnie  Steppler 
was  in  France  for  her  syndicate  of  papers  sending 
back  stories  about  the  Kansas  and  Nebraska  and 
Wyoming  lads  in  Paris — the  best  stories  of  her  ca 
reer.  And  Ben  Gartz  was  at  the  station.  He  was 
there  in  spats,  and  a  check  suit,,  and  what  is  known 
as  a  trench  coat,  with  a  belt  and  full  skirt;  and  a 
little  green  soft  hat  with  a  tiny  scarlet  feather  stuck 
in  the  band,  toward  the  back.  He  had  regained 
some  of  his  former  weight,  and  though  he  was  dap 
per  and  spruce  he  looked  plump  and  pink-jowled 
and  prime.  Surprisingly  young,  too.  It  was  said 
that,  quite  outside  the  flourishing  wrist-watch  busi 
ness,  he  had  just  made  a  little  fortune  in  War  Steel. 
He  joked  with  Charley.  "You  little  rascal !"  Lot 
tie  heard  him  say;  and  Charley  had  laughed  and 
looked  arch.  When  he  came  over  to  Lottie  his  ad 
miring  eyes  were  still  on  Charley's  slim  young  fig 
ure.  "That  little  niece  of  yours  is  a  card!  She's 
a  wonder,  that  kid."  Ben  and  The  Girls  had 
brought  books,  candy,  flowers,  magazines.  Ben 
had  taken  the  name  of  the  New  York  hotel  at  which 


THE  GIRLS  309 

she  was  to  stop  overnight.  She  saw,  in  anticipa 
tion,  more  books,  flowers,  candy.  She  wished  he 
wouldn't.  Effie  Case's  eyes  were  red.  Lottie 
wished  that  the  train  would  start.  They  were 
standing  round,  with  nothing  more  to  say.  How 
old  Henry  looked.  What  a  dear  he  was.  Fine. 
Too  fine  and  good. 

The  train  gave  a  tremendous  jerk.  She  stood 
on  the  car  steps.,  looking  down  on  them.  They, 
on  the  platform,  waved  hands,  handkerchiefs,  their 
faces  upturned  to  her. 

"Cable  the  minute  you  land/' 

"Good-bye!     Good-bye!" 

"If  you  see  Vernon  Hatch  tell  him " 

"Stationed  at  Nancy  I  think — or  maybe  it's 
Soissons." 

"Woollen  stockings  when  you  get — — " 

"Good-bye!  .  .  .  'Bye!" 

The  train  gathered  speed.  They  dwindled.  Ben 
Gartz,  standing  just  beside  Charley,  took  hold  of  her 
arm  above  the  elbow  and  leaning  over  her  looked 
down  into  her  face,  laughing  and  saying  something. 
Dimly,  Lottie  saw  the  little  group  turning  away. 
Ben's  arm  still  grasped  Charley's,  proprietorially. 

A  wave  of  fear  and  apprehension  so  violent  as 
to  be  almost  dizzying  swept  over  Lottie.  "Wait  a 
minute!"  she  cried  to  the  astonished  porter  who  was 


310  THE  GIRLS 

carrying  in  bags  and  boxes  piled  on  the  car  plat 
form.     "Wait  a  minute!" 

"Too  late  now,  lady.  Ef  yo'  fo'got  som'hum 
Ah  kin  sen*  yo'  wiah  at  Elkhart.  Elkhart's  nex' 
stop,  lady." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  family  thought  that  Ben  Gartz  was  being 
heavily  attentive.  A  man  who  paid  court  to 
a  woman  through  her  family  was  an  attentive  man. 
But  after  the  first  few  weeks  following  Lottie's 
departure  it  was  unmistakably  plain  that  his  atten 
tions  were  concentrating  on  the  Kemp  branch  of  the 
family  rather  than  on  the  Payson.  The  first  box 
of  candy  sent  to  Charley,  for  example,  came  a  week 
after  Lottie's  sailing.  It  was  one  of  those  large 
satin,  brocade,  lace-and-gold  affairs.  You  have 
seen  them  in  the  two-dollar-a-pound  shops  and  have 
wondered  who  might  be  so  fatuous  or  so  rich  or  so 
much  in  love  as  to  buy  them,  Charley,  coming  from 
work  on  a  cool  autumn  day,  found  a  great  square 
package  on  the  dressing  table  in  her  bedroom.  Her 
letters  and  packages  and  telephone  calls  always  were 
placed  there,  ready  for  home-coming. 

"Any  mail?"  she  said,  to-day.  Her  quick  eye 
had  seen  there  was  none.  And  yet  she  so  wanted 
some — one  letter  in  particular — that  she  asked, 
hopefully.  Mail,  to  Charley,  meant,  those  days,  one 
of  those  thin  envelopes  with  a  strip  pasted  over  one 


312  THE  GIRLS 

end  to  show  where  the  censor  had  opened  it.  Then 
she  had  seen  the  box.  It  was  an  unavoidable  box 
holding,  as  it  did,  five  pounds  of  Wood's  most  in 
tricate  sweets.  In  these  self-sacrificing  days  candy 
was  one  of  the  things  you  had  learned  to  forego. 
Therefore,  *  Wood's!"  exclaimed  Charley,  remov 
ing  the  wrappers.  "Who  do  you  suppose? — Oh, 
my  goodness !  It  looks  like  a  parlor  davenport ;  or  a 
dressy  coffin.  Why,  it's  from  that  Ben  Gartz! 
Well!  Lotta  can't  say  I'm  not  keeping  the  home- 
fires  burning." 

She  gave  the  brocade  box  to  Jeannette  for  her 
dresser  and  more  than  half  its  contents  to  her 
grandmother  and  Aunt  Charlotte,  both  of  whom  ate 
sweets  in  appalling  quantities,  the  flickering  flame 
of  their  bodily  furnaces  doubtless  calling  for  this 
quick  form  of  fuel.  She  herself  scarcely  tasted  it, 
thinking  more  of  a  clear  skin  than  a  pleased  palate. 
She  meant  to  write  Ben  a  note  of  thanks.  She 
even  started  one;  addressed  one  of  her  great  square 
stiff  art-paper  envelopes  in  her  dashing  hand.  But 
something  called  her  away  and  she  never  finished  it. 
He  called  at  the  house  a  week  later,  after  dinner — 
just  dropped  in  as  he  was  driving  by — and  men 
tioned  it  delicately. 

"Oh,  Miss  Charley,  I  sent  you  a  little — I  won 
dered  if  you  got  it " 

Then    she   was    honestly   ashamed.     "Oh,    Mr. 


THE  GIRLS  313 

Gartz,  what  a  pig  you  must  think  me !  I  started  a 

note  to  you.  Really "  She  even  ran  back  to 

her  room  and  returned  with  the  envelope  and  the 
sheet  of  paper  on  which  she  had  written  his  name, 
and  the  date.  He  said  he  was  going  to  keep  the 
piece  of  paper,  and  tucked  it  into  his  left-hand  vest 
pocket  with  a  soulful  loolc. 

The  box  containing  his  second  gift  made  the  first 
one  seem  infinitesimal.  Mrs.  Kemp  was  the  recipi 
ent.  She  had  said,  characteristically,  that  she 
didn't  mind  doing  without  white  bread,  or  sugar 
in  her  coffee,  or  new  clothes,  but  it  was  hard  not 
being  able  to  have  flowers.  She  had  always  had 
flowers  in  the  living  room  until  now — a  standing 
order  at  the  florist's.  The  box  held  two  dozen 
American  Beauties  whose  legs  stuck  out  through  a 
I  slit  in  the  end.  It  was  November,  and  American 
Beauties  were  fifteen  dollars  a  dozen.  There 
weren't  enough  tall  vases  in  the  house  to  accommo 
date  them  all.  Their  scarlet  heads  glowed  in  the 
jade-green  background  of  the  sun  parlour  and  all 
over  the  living  room  and  even  spilled  back  into  Belle 
Kemp's  bedroom.  Charley  told  her  father  that  he 
ought  to  realise  the  seriousness  of  it.  "Where's 
your  pride  and  manhood,  Henry  Kemp!  Two 
dozen  American  Beauties!  It's  equivalent  to 
jewelry." 

Henry,  eyeing  them,  rubbed  a  rueful  hand  over 


314  THE  GIRLS 

his  chin,  even  while  he  grinned.  "Next  time  I  wish 
old  Ben'd  send  the  cash." 

Things  had  come  to  a  bad  pass  with  Henry  Kemp. 
It  was  no  longer  necessary  for  him  to  say  that  busi 
ness  was  not  going.  Business,  for  him,  was  gone. 
Importing  was  as  dead  as  war  and  U-boats  could 
make  it.  His  house,  together  with  many  less  flour 
ishing  and  important  ones,  had  closed  for  lack  of 
goods.  It  had  been  wiped  out  so  completely  that 
there  remained  of  it  nothing  to  tell  the  tale  except 
the  exquisite  collection  of  Venetian  glass,  and  Bohe 
mian  liqueur  sets,  and  French  enamel  opera  glasses 
and  toilette  table  pieces,  and  Hungarian  china  and 
embroidery  which  Belle  had  acquired  during  the 
years  in  which  her  husband  had  dealt  in  these  pre 
cious  things.  Sometimes  you  saw  Henry  looking  at 
them — picking  up  a  fine  old  piece  of  French  china 
or  Italian  glass  from  the  buffet  or  dresser  and  turn 
ing  it  over  to  scan  its  familiar  stamp.  He  knew 
them  as  an  expert  knows  diamonds.  His  eye  could 
detect  any  flaw  in  glaze  or  colour. 

Now,  at  fifty,  Henry  Kemp,  for  years  a  success 
ful  merchant  and  importer,  was  looking  about  for 
an  opening.  He  would  get  something.  The  young 
men  were  being  drawn  away  by  the  hundreds  of 
thousands.  He  had  been  offered  a  position  which 
would  require  his  travelling  for  six  months  in  the 
year.  He  had  no  illusions  about  it.  On  the  road, 


THE  GIRLS  315 

a  travelling  salesman,  at  fifty.  It  was  a  bitter  pill 
for  Henry  Kemp.  He  could  not  yet  force  himself 
to  swallow  it. 

His  day  stretched,  empty,  before  him,  but  he 
made  himself  busy.  Each  morning  he  rose  at  the 
hour  to  which  his  business  had  accustomed  him 
for  years.  He  bathed  and  shaved  and  dressed  care 
fully,  as  usual.  He  breakfasted  and  glanced  at  the 
paper,  doing  both  with  the  little  air  of  hurry  that 
had  meant  the  car  waiting  outside,  or  the  8 145  I.  C. 
train  to  catch.  For  twenty-five  years  he  had  gone 
downtown  daily  at  a  certain  time,  his  face  alight 
with  the  eager  alert  expression  which  meant  the 
anticipation  of  a  heavy  mail  and  a  day  crowded  with 
orders.  He  still  followed  out  this  programme.  But 
the  eager  look  was  absent.  His  springy  step  was 
suddenly  heavy,  lagging.  Belle  sometimes  won 
dered  where  he  went — how  he  filled  his  day.  He 
belonged  to  clubs — big,  comfortable,  prosperous 
clubs  housed  on  Michigan  Boulevard.  But  clubs, 
to  American  business  men,  meant  a  place  for  a  quiet 
business  talk  at  luncheon.  During  the  day  they 
were,  for  the  most  part,  deserted.  Sometimes 
Charley  said,  "Lunch  with  me,  father?" 

"I've  got  to  see  a  man  at  twelve.  It's  a  con 
ference.  I  can't  tell  how  long  it'll  last." 

Henry  Kemp  presented  that  most  tragic  of  spec 
tacles,  the  American  business  man  at  leisure. 


316  THE  GIRLS 

In  fairness  to  Belle  Kemp  it  must  be  said  that 
she  did  not  nag  him,  or  reproach  him,,  or  bewail  her 
lot  or  mope.  He  would  get  something,  she  knew. 
He  had  a  reputation  for  business  acumen ;  a  stand 
ing  in  the  community;  hosts  of  influential  friends. 
Besides,  there  was  money  for  present  needs.  They 
had  lived  well,  the  Kemps.  Henry  had  denied  his 
wife  and  daughter  nothing.  Still  Henry  Kemp 
sensed  that  his  wife  was  thinking,  "Failure." 
Failure  at  fifty.  She  was  too  much  her  mother's 
daughter  to  think  otherwise.  So  he  walked  off,, 
jauntily,  every  morning,  with  a  haste  that  deceived 
no  one,  least  of  all  himself. 

Ben  Gartz  got  into  the  way  of  sending  tickets 
to  the  Kemps.  Tickets  for  concerts,  tickets  for 
war  benefits,  for  the  theatre.  "I  wonder  if  you 
wouldn't  like  to  use  these?  I  can't  go  and  I 
thought " 

He  heard  Charley  speak  of  a  book  she  had  tried 
to  get,  and  failed.  He  sent  to  New  York  for  it 
and  had  it  mailed  to  her.  It  was  the  Bab  Ballads. 
He  did  not  know  that  she  wanted  them  for  Jesse. 
She  and  Jesse  had  read  them  together  often.  Now 
she  thought  that  if  she  could  send  them  to  him  if 
only  to  amuse  him  for  a  day,  or  an  hour  even,  in 
the  trenches  or  back  of  the  lines,  it  would  be  some 
thing.  Ben  Gartz  had  never  heard  of  the  book  but 
he  had  written  down  the  name,  carefully,  in  his 


THE  GIRLS  317 

little  leather  notebook.  When  Charley  told  him 
that  she  had  sent  the  volume  ($4.50  net)  to  Jesse, 
in  Prance,  his  face  wore  the  strangest  look. 

When  Mrs.  Payson  heard  of  these  things,  as  she 
inevitably  did,  she  looked  a  little  aggrieved.  "He's 
been  here  once  since  Lottie  left — just  once.  I  can't 
blame  him.  Lottie  treated  him  like  a  dog.  If  ever 
there  was  an  attentive  man.  But  what's  he  come 
to  your  house  so  much  for?" 

"Oh,  he  and  Henry "  Belle  said  lamely. 

Aunt  Charlotte  spoke  up  from  the  silence  which 
now  enveloped  her  more  and  more.  "I  suppose 
there's  nothing  Henry  needs  just  now  more  than 
candy  and  roses  and  theatre  tickets  and  one  thing 
and  another." 

Following  these  attentions — rather,  breaking  into 
the  midst  of  them  as  they  came,  thick  and  fast— 
the  Kemps  had  Ben  Gartz  in  to  dinner.  They  had 
had  few  dinner  guests  of  late.  Belle  made  a  very 
special  effort  and  the  dinner  was  delicious ;  a  thing 
to  tempt  Ben's  restaurant-jaded  appetite.  The 
meat  sauce  was  smooth,  rich,  zestful;  the  dressing 
for  the  salad  properly  piquant,  but  suave ;  the  sweet 
just  light  enough  to  satisfy  without  cloying.  Ben 
Gartz  had  become  a  connoissuer  in  these  things  as 
does  your  fleshly  man  who  learns  late  in  life  of 
gastronomic  delights. 


3i8  THE  GIRLS 

After  dinner  he  and  Henry  talked  business. 
"Have  a  cigar,  Henry." 

"Thanks,  but  I  don't  smoke  those  heavy  ones  any 
more.  They  don't  agree  with  me.  Try  one  of 
these." 

Ben  took  it,  eyed  it,  tucked  it  into  his  vest  pocket 
and  lighted  one  of  his  own.  He  rolled  it  between 
his  lips.  He  squinted  up  through  the  smoke. 

"Well  now,  Kemp,  you  hold  on  for  awhile  longer, 
will  you?  There  may  be  something  pretty  big 
breaking  for  you." 

"How  do  you  mean,  breaking  for  me?" 

"I  don't  want  to  say,  right  now.  But  I  mean — 
well,  I  mean  in  our  business.  We  knew  we  had  a 
big  thing  but  we  didn't  know  what  we  really  had. 
Why,  it's  colossal.  There's  only  me — and  Beck 
and  Diblee.  Beck's  getting  pretty  old.  He's  a 
pioneer  among  the  jewelry  manufacturers.  Crowd 
ing  seventy,  Beck  is.  Diblee's  all  right  but  he 
doesn't  do  for  the  trade.  He  hasn't  got  the  trick 
of  mixing.  He  wears  those  eyeglasses  with  a  black 
ribbon,  you  know,  and  talks  about  the  east,  where 
he  came  from,  and  they  get  sore,  the  wholesalers 
do  ...  Got  any  capital,  Henry?  Not  that  we 
need  capital,  y'understand.  Lord  no!  What  we 
need  is  brains  and  business  experience  and  a  mixer. 
I've  got  all  three  but  say,  I  can't  be  everywhere." 

As  if  by  magic  Henry  Kemp's  face  filled  out,  be- 


THE  GIRLS  319 

came  firm  where  it  had  sagged,  glowed  where  it 
had  been  sallow  with  the  jaundice  of  discourage 
ment. 

"Why,,  say  Ben — look  here — you  don't  mean — " 

"I  don't  mean  anything,  Kemp.  Not  yet.  And 
perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  anything.  Of 
course  old  Beck  and  Diblee've  got  to  be  considered. 
But  I  think  I  could  swing  it — if  I  pushed  hard 
enough.  The  business  is  getting  to  be  enormous, 
I'm  telling  you.  Four  million  kids  in  service,  every 
one  of  'em  with  a  watch  on  his  wrist,  y'understand, 
from  doughboy  to  general ;  and  millions  and  millions 
more  to  come.  Why,  say,  before  we're  through  with 
this  thing " 

He  gave  Henry  a  tip  on  war  stocks. 

"No  thanks,"  Henry  said.  "I  can't  afford  to  take 
any  chances  just  now." 

"But  this  isn't  a  chance,  you  chump.  Where's 
your  nerve !  Can't  you  trust  a  fellow  that's  giving 
it  to  you  straight !" 

Henry  was  tempted,  but  privately  decided  against 
it.  It  wasn't  fair  to  Belle  and  Charley  to  take  the 
chance,  he  thought.  A  week  later  Ben  telephoned 
him. 

"Sell  out  on  that  stuff  Henry — you  know — that  I 
told  you  about." 

"I  didn't  buy." 

"Didn't !" 


320  THE  GIRLS 

"No." 

"Why  you  darned  fool,  I  just  cleaned  up  twenty- 
five  thousand  on  it,,  that's  all.  My  God,  why " 

Henry  put  it  out  of  his  mind,  grimly.  He  told 
himself  he  had  done  the  right  thing.  Sometimes 
Henry  Kemp  thought  of  his  insurance.  He  carried 
a  big  insurance.  When  he  died  it  would  amount 
to  a  tidy  fortune  for  Belle  and  Charley.  But  it  had 
to  be  kept  up.  It  was  all  clear  now  but  it  had  to  be 
kept  up  ...  He  put  that  thought  out  of  his  mind. 
An  ugly  thought. 

Ben  was  just  as  good  a  sport  about  small  stakes 
as  he  was  about  big  ones.  He  made  a  bet  with 
Charley,  for  example.  He  seemed  so  certainly  on 
the  losing  side  that  Charley  said,  "But  I  won't  bet 
on  that.  I'm  sure  of  it.  You  haven't  a  sporting 
chance." 

"Oh,  haven't  I!  That's  what  everybody  thinks 
before  the  other  fellow  wins.  I'm  just  as  sure  as  you 
are.  I'm,  so  sure  that  I'll  bet  you  a  pair  of  gloves 
to  a  set  of  dice.  What  size  do  you  wear?  Under 
stand,  I'm  only  asking  to  observe  the  formalities, 
that's  all.  I'm  safe."  He  laughed  a  fat  chuckling 
laugh  and  took  Charley's  slim  strong  young  fingers 
in  his  own  pulpy  clasp.  Charley  was  surprised  to 
find  herself  snatching  her  hand  away,  hotly.  She 
hadn't  meant  to.  It  was  purely  involuntary.  The 
reaction  against  something  distasteful.  She  won 


THE  GIRLS  321 

the  bet.  He  sent  her  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  finest 
French  glace  gloves.  Charley  fingered  them,, 
thoughtfully.  There  was  nothing  pleased  about  her 
expression.  She  was  not  a  fool,  Charley.  But  she 
told  herself  that  she  was;  poo-pood'd  the  idea  that 
was  growing  in  her  mind.  But  now,  steadily,  when 
he  called  at  the  house,  telephoned,  wrote,  sent  flow 
ers  or  candy  she  was  out;  did  not  answer;  ignored 
the  gifts.  He  found  out  that  she  and  her  mother 
had  arranged  to  meet  at  a  tea-room  for  lunch  during 
Charley's  noon  hour  one  day,  intercepted  them,  car 
ried  them  off  almost  bodily  to  the  Blackstone. 
There,,  in  the  rich  splendour  of  the  rose-and-cream 
dining  room  looking  out  upon  the  boulevard  and 
the  lake  beyond,  he  was  in  his  element.  A  table  by 
the  window — the  centre  window.  Well,  Maurice, 
what  have  you  got  out  of  season,  h'm?  Lobster? 
Japanese  persimmons  ?  Artichokes  ?  Corn  on  the 
cob?  He  remembered  that  Charley  had  once  said 
she  adored  Lobster  Thermidor  as  the  Blackstone 
chef  prepared  it.  "But  none  of  your  little  crab- 
sized  lobsters  now,  Maurice !  This  young  lady  may 
be  a  baby  vamp  but  she  doesn't  want  your  little 
measly  baby  lobster,  remember.  A  good  big  one. 
And  hot.  And  plenty  of  sauce.  .  .  .  Now  then, 
Mrs.  Kemp.  How  about  you?" 

Charley  ate  two  bites  of  the  big  succulent  crus 
tacean  and  left  the  rest  disdainfully  as  a  reproach 


322  THE  GIRLS 

and  a  punishment  for  him.  She  talked  little,  and 
then  of  Lottie.  Her  manner  was  frigid,  remote, 
baffling.  A  baby  vamp — she,  Charley  Kemp !  who 
loathed  cheapness,  and  bobbed  hair,  and  wriggling 
ways,  and  the  whole  new  breed  of  her  contempo 
raries  who  were  of  the  hard-drinking,  stairway 
kissing,  country-club  petting  class.  She  thought 
of  Jesse,  looked  out  across  the  broad  avenue  to  the 
great  blue  expanse  of  lake  as  though  it  were  in  real 
ity  the  ocean  that  lay  between  them;  and  left  her 
sweet  untouched  on  her  plate. 

Mrs.  Kemp  did  not  speak  to  Charley  of  Ben 
Gartz's  insistent  attentions.  Probably  she  did  not 
even  admit  to  herself  the  meaning  of  them,  at  first. 
But  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  began,  perhaps  un 
consciously,  a  process  of  slow  poisoning. 

"They  all  say  this  will  go  on  for  years.  There 
won't  be  a  young  man  left  in  the  world — nor  a  mid 
dle-aged  man,  for  that  matter.  Nothing  but  old 
men  and  children.  Look  at  France,  and  Poland, 
and  Germany!  I  don't  know  what  the  women  are 
going  to  do." 

"Do?"  queried  Charley,  maliciously;  she  knew 
perfectly  well  what  her  mother  meant. 

"Do  for  husbands.  Girls  must  marry,  you 
know." 

"I  don't  see  the  necessity,"  said  Charley,  coolly. 
(Charley,  who  stretched  out  her  arms  in  the  dark.) 


THE  GIRLS  323 

"Well  I  do.  How  would  you  like  to  be  another 
Aunt  Charlotte?  Or  a  Lottie,  for  that  matter?" 

"There  are  worse  fates,  mother  dear.  For  that 
matter,  I  know  a  lot  of  married  women  who  envy 
me  my  independence.  I  don't  know  any  married 
women  I  envy." 

"That's  complimentary  to  your  father,  I  must 
say." 

"Now,  don't  be  personal,  mother.  I'd  rather  have 
Dad  for  a  father  than  any  father  I've  ever  seen. 
Why,  he's  darling.  I  love  the  way  he  doesn't  get 
me;  and  his  laugh;  and  his  sweetness  with  you;  and 
his  fineness  and  dignity;  and  the  way  he's  kept  his 
waistline;  and  his  fondness  for  the  country.  Oh, 
everything  about  him  as  a  father.  But  as  the  type 
of  husband  for  me  Dad  lacks  the  light  touch  .  .  . 
What  a  conversation !  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Belle 
Kemp!" 

One  day,  in  mid-winter,  Henry  Kemp  came  home 
looking  more  lined  and  careworn  than  usual.  It 
was  five  o'clock.  His  wife  was  in  their  bedroom. 
He  always  whistled  an  enquiring  note  or  two  when 
he  let  himself  in  at  the  front  door.  It  was  a  little 
conjugal  call  that  meant,  "Are  you  home  ?"  In  her 
babyhood  days  Charley  always  used  to  come  patter 
ing  and  staggering  down  the  long  hall  at  the  sound 
of  it.  But  though  he  caught  the  child  up  in  his  arms 
he  always  kissed  his  wife  first.  Not  that  Belle  had 


324  THE  GIRLS 

always  been  there.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  wife 
who  makes  a  point  of  being  home  to  greet  her  lord 
when  he  returns  weary  from  the  chase.  As  often 
as  not  a  concert,  or  matinee,  or  late  bridge  delayed 
her  beyond  her  husband's  home-coming  time.  Then 
the  little  questioning  whistle  sounded  plaintively  in 
the  empty  apartment,,  and  Henry  went  about  his 
tidying  up  for  dinner  with  one  ear  cocked  for  the 
click  of  the  front-door  lock. 

To-night  he  whistled  as  usual.  You  almost  felt 
the  effort  he  made  to  pucker  his  lips  for  the  sound 
that  used  to  be  so  blithe.  Belle  answered  him. 
"Yoo-hoo!"  For  the  first  time  he  found  himself 
wishing  she  had  been  out.  He  came  into  their  bed 
room.  A  large,  gracious,  rose-illumined  room  it 
was.  Belle  was  standing  before  the  mirror  doing 
something  to  her  hair.  Her  arms  were  raised.  She 
smiled  at  him  in  the  mirror.  "You're  home  early." 

He  came  over  to  her,  put  his  arm  about  her  and 
kissed  her  rather  roughly.  He  was  still  in  love 
with  his  somewhat  selfish  wife,  was  Henry  Kemp. 
And  this  kiss  was  a  strange  mixture  of  passion,  of 
fear,  and  defiance  and  protest  against  the  cruel  cir 
cumstance  that  was  lashing  him  now.  Here  he  was, 
the  lover,  the  generous  provider,  the  kind  and  tol 
erant  husband  and  father,  suddenly  transformed  by 
a  malicious  force  he  was  powerless  to  combat,  into 
a  mendicant;  an  asker  instead  of  a  giver;  a  fail- 


THE  GIRLS  325 

ure  who  had  grown  used  to  the  feel  of  success.  So 
now  he  looked  at  this  still-pretty  woman  who  was 
his  wife,,  and  his  arm  tightened  about  her  and  he 
kissed  her  hard,  as  though  these  things  held  for  him 
some  tangible  assurance. 

"Henry !"  she  shrugged  him  away.  "Now  look  at 
my  hair !"  He  looked  at  it.  He  looked  at  its  re 
flection  in  the  mirror;  at  her  face,  unlined  and  rosy; 
at  his  own  face  near  hers.  He  was  startled  at  the 
contrast,  so  sallow  and  haggard  he  seemed. 

He  rubbed  a  hand  over  his  cheek  and  chin.  "Gosh ! 
I  look  seedy." 

"You  need  a  shave,"  Belle  said,  lightly.  She 
turned  away  from,  the  mirror.  He  caught  her  arm, 
faced  her,  his  face  almost  distorted  with  pain. 

"Belle,  well  have  to  get  out  of  here." 

"Out  of — how  do  you  mean?" 

"Our  lease  is  up  in  May.  We'd  have  to  go  then, 
anyway.  But  I  was  talking  to  a  fellow  to-day — 
Leach,  of  the  David,  Anderson  company.  They've 
made  a  pile  in  war  contracts.  His  wife's  looking 
for  an  apartment  about  this  size  and  neighborhood. 
They'd  take  it  off  our  hands — the  lease  I  mean." 

"Now?    You  mean  now!" 

"Yes.  We  could  take  something  smaller.  We — 
we'll  have  to,,  Belle." 

She  threw  a  terrified  glance  around  the  room.  It 
was  a  glance  that  encompassed  everything,  as 


326  THE  GIRLS 

though  she  were  seeing  it  all  for  the  first  time.  It 
was  the  look  one  gives  a  cherished  thing  that  is 
about  to  be  snatched  away.  A  luxurious  room  with 
its  silken  bed-covers  and  rosy  hangings.  The  room 
of  a  fastidious  luxury-loving  woman.  Its  appoint 
ments  were  as  carefully  chosen  as  her  gowns.  The 
beds  were  rich  dark  walnut,  magnificently  marked 
— not  at  all  the  walnut  of  Mrs.  Payson's  great  cum 
bersome  edifice  in  the  old  Prairie  Avenue  house — 
but  exquisite  pieces  of  bijouterie;  plump,  inviting; 
beds  such  as  queens  have  slept  in.  The  reading 
lamp  on  the  small  table  between  gave  just  the  sooth 
ing  subdued  glow  to  make  one's  eleven  o'clock 
printed  page  a  narcotic  instead  of  a  stimulant.  Be 
side  it  a  little  clock  of  finest  French  enamel  picked 
out  with  platinum  ticked  almost  soundlessly. 

Terror  lay  in  her  eyes  as  they  turned  from  their 
contemplation  of  this  to  the  man  who  stood  before 
her.  "Oh,  Henry,  can't  we  hold  out  just  for  awhile  ? 
This  war  can't  last  much  longer.  Everybody  says 
it'll  be  over  soon — the  spring,  perhaps — "  She  who 
had  just  spoken  to  Charley  of  its  endlessness. 

"It's  no  use,  Belle.  No  one  knows  how  long  it'll 
last.  I  hate  to  give  it  up.  But  we've  got  to,  that's 
all.  We  might  as  well  face  it." 

"How  about  Ben  Gartz?  He  promised  to  take 
you  into  the  business — that  wonderful  business." 


THE  GIRLS  327 

"He  didn't  promise.  He  sort  of  hinted.  He 
didn't  mean  any  harm.  He's  a  big  talker,  Ben." 

"But  he  meant  it.  I  know  he  did.  I  know  he 
did."  A  sudden  thought  came  to  her.  "How  long 
has  it  been  since  he  talked  to  you  about — since  he 
last  mentioned  it  to  you?" 

"Oh,,  it's  been  three  weeks  anyway." 

She  calculated  quickly.  It  was  three  weeks  since 
the  Blackstone  luncheon  when  Charley  had  been 
so  rude  to  him.  She  tucked  this  away  in  the  back 
of  her  mind;  fenced  for  time.  "Couldn't  we  sub 
let?  I'd  even  be  willing  to  rent  it  furnished,  to 
reliable  people." 

"Furnished?  What  good  would  that  do?  Where 
would  we  live?" 

She  had  thought  of  that,  too.  "We  could  go  to 
mother's  to  live  for  awhile.  There's  loads  of  room. 
We  could  have  the  whole  third  floor,  for  that  mat 
ter,  until  this  blows  over.  Lots  of  families 

But  at  that  his  jaws  came  together  and  the  lower 
one  jutted  out  a  little  in  the  line  she  had  seen  so 
seldom  and  yet  knew  so  well.  It  meant  thus  far 
and  no  farther. 

"No,  Belle.  I  may  be  broke,  but  I'm  not  that 
broke — yet.  I'll  provide  a  home  for  my  family. 
Maybe  it  won't  be  quite  what  we're  used  to;  but 
it'll  be  of  my  own  providing.  When  I  let  you  go 
back  to  your  mother's  to  live  you  can  know  I'm, 


328  THE  GIRLS 

licked,  beaten,  done.  But  not  until  then,  under 
stand." 

She  understood. 

"Well,  dear,  we'll  just  have  to  do  the  best  we 
can.  When  do  you  have  to  give  Leach  your  an 
swer?" 

"Within  the  week,  I  should  say.    Yes." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  brightly.  She  patted  his 
lean  cheek  with  her  soft  cool  scented  hand.  "Well, 
you  never  can  tell.  Something  may  happen."  She 
left  him  to  shave  and  dress. 

He  thought,  "What  a  child  she  is.    Women  are." 

She  thought.  "He's  like  a  child.  All  men  are 
.  .  .  Well,  I've  got  to  manage  this." 

There  were  two  telephone  connections  in  that  big 
apartment — ene  in  the  front  hall,  another  in  the 
dining  room  at  the  rear.  She  went  down  the  hall, 
closed  the  dining  room  door  carefully,  called  Ben 
Gartz's  office  number  in  a  low  tense  voice.  It  was 
not  yet  five-thirty.  He  might  still  be  there.  He 
must  be,  she  told  herself. 

He  was.  His  tone,  when  he  heard  her  name,  was 
rather  sulky.  But  she  had  ways.  We  haven't  seen 
a  thing  of  you.  Forgotten  your  old  friends  since 
you've  made  all  that  horrid  money.  Talking  of 
you  only  yesterday.  Who?  Charley.  Why  not 
come  up  for  dinner  to-night.  Just  a  plain  family 
meal  but  there  was  a  rather  special  deep  dish  pie. 


THE  GIRLS  329 

He  would  come.  You  could  hear  that  it  was 
against  his  better  judgment.  But  he  would  come. 
When  she  had  hung  up  the  receiver  she  sat  for  a 
minute,  breathing  fast,  as  if  she  had  been  running 
a  close  race.  Then  she  went  into  the  kitchen  and 
began  feverish  preparations.  Halfway,  she  stopped 
suddenly,  went  back  into  the  dining  room.,  picked 
up  the  receiver  and  gave  her  own  telephone  num 
ber,  hung  up  quickly,  opened  the  door  that  led 
from  the  dining  room  to  the  long  hall,  and  let  the 
telephone  bell  ring  three  times  before  she  answered 
it.  The  maid  opened  the  swinging  door  that  led 
to  the  kitchen  but  Belle  shook  her  head.  "Never 
mind.  I'll  answer  it."  She  said  "hello,"  then  hung 
up  again,  once  the  buzzing  had  ceased.  Then,  care 
fully,  she  carried  on  a  brief  conversation  with  some 
one  who  was  not  there — some  one  who  evidently 
wanted  to  come  to  see  them  all;  and  wouldn't  he 
like  to  run  in  to  dinner.  She  went  to  the  hall  door 
and  called.  "Henry!  Oh,  Henry!" 

A  mumble  from  the  direction  of  the  bathroom 
meant  that  he  was  handicapped  by  shaving  lather. 

"I  just  wanted  to  tell  you.  That  was  Ben  Gartz 
who  just  called  up.  He  wanted  to  come  up  so  I 
asked  him  to  dinner.  Is  that  all  right  ?" 

"  'S'all  right  with  me." 

Grapefruit.    Olives.    A  can  of  mushrooms  to  be 


330  THE  GIRLS 

opened.  For  over  half  an  hour  she  worked  furi 
ously.  At  six  Charley  came  home. 

"Hello,  Dad.  Where's  mother?"  He  was  read 
ing  the  evening  paper  under  the  amber-silk  light  of 
the  living  room.  Charley  kissed  the  top  of  his  head, 
patted  his  shoulder  once,  and  went  back  to  her  room. 
A  little  subdued  these  days  was  Charley — for  Char 
ley.  "Any  mail  ?  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with 
Lotta.  I  haven't  had  a  letter  in  a  month." 

Her  bedroom  was  down  the  long  hall,  halfway 
between  the  living  room  and  dining  room.  Her 
mother  was  already  there,  waiting.  "Any  mail? 
.  .  .  How  pretty  you  look,  mother!  Your  cheeks 
are  all  pink."  But  her  eyes  went  past  her  mother 
to  the  little  sheaf  of  envelopes  that  lay  on  her 
dressing  table.  She  went  toward  them,  quickly. 
But  her  mother  stopped  her. 

"Listen,  Charley.  Ben  Gartz  is  coming  to  din 
ner  to-night."  Charley's  eyebrows  went  up  ever  so 
slightly.  She  said  nothing.  "Charley,  Ben  Gartz 
could  do  a  great  deal  for  your  father — and  for  all 
of  us — if  he  wanted  to." 

"Doesn't  he  want  to?" 

"Well,  after  all,  why  should  he?  It  isn't  as  if 
we  were  related — or  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  fam- 
ily." 

"Lottie,  you  mean?"   She  knew  what  her  mother 


THE  GIRLS  331 

meant.  And  yet  she  wanted  to  give  her  a  chance — 
a  chance  to  save  herself  from  this  final  infamy. 

"N-n-no."  Her  voice  had  the  rising  inflection. 
"I  don't  think  he  cares  about  Lottie  any  more/' 

"Then  that  snatches  him  definitely  out  of  the 
family  clutches,  doesn't  it?  Unless  Aunt  Char- 
lotte- 

"Don't  be  funny,  Charley..  He's  a  man  to  be 
respected.  He's  good-looking,  not  old;  more  than 
well-to-do — rich,  really." 

Charley's  eyes  were  cold  and  hard.  And  they 
were  no  longer  mother  and  daughter,  but  two 
women,  battle-locked.  "M-m-m  ...  A  little  old 
and  fat  though,  don't  you  think,  for  most  purposes  ? 
And  just  a  wee  bit  common??  H'm?" 

"Common!  Well,  when  it  comes  to  being  com 
mon,  my  dear  child,  I  don't  think  there  was  any 
thing  fastidious  about  the  choice  you  made  last 
June.  After  all,  Delicatessen  Dick  isn't  ex- 
actly- 

"Just  a  minute,  mother.  I  want  to  get  this  thing 
straight.  I'm  to  marry  your  chubby  little  friend 
in  order  to  save  the  family  fortunes — is  that  it  ?  " 

"N-no.     I  don't  mean  just  that.     I  merely " 

"What  do  you  mean,  then?  I  want  to  hear  you 
say  it?" 

"You  could  do  a  really  big  thing  for  your  father. 
You  must  have  seen  how  old  he's  grown  in  the  last 


332  THE  GIRLS 

six  months.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  stand  by  and 
not  want  to  help.  He  had  a  chance.  Ben  Gartz 
practically  offered  to  take  him  into  the  business. 
But  you  were  deliberately  rude  to  him.  No  man 
with  any  pride " 

Charley  began  to  laugh  then;  not  prettily.  "Oh, 
mother,  you  quaint  old  thing!"  Belle  stiffened. 
"I  don't  want  to  insult  you,  don't  you  know,  but 
I  can't  make  a  thing  out  of  what  you've  said  ex 
cept  that  if  I  marry  this  chubby  little  ridiculous  old 
sport  he'll  take  Dad  into  the  business  and  we'll  all 
live  happily  ever  after  and  I'll  be  just  like  the  noble 
heroine  who  sells  herself  to  the  rich  old  banker  to 
pay  the  muggidge.  Oh  mother!"  She  was  laugh 
ing  again ;  and  then,  suddenly,  she  was  crying,  her 
face  distorted.  She  was  crying  terribly. 

"Sh-sh-sh!  Your  father'll  hear  you!  There's 
nothing  to  make  a  scene  about." 

"No  scene !"  said  Charley,  through  her  tears.  "If 
you  can't  cry  when  your  mother  dies  when  can  you 
cry!" 

She  turned  away  from  her  then.  Belle  Kemp 
looked  a  little  frightened.  But  at  the  door  she  said 
what  she  still  had  to  say.  "He's  coming  here  to 
dinner  to-night." 

Charley,  lifting  heavy  arms  to  take  off  her  hat, 
seemed  not  to  hear.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  a  moment — stared  at  the  tear-stained  red- 


THE  GIRLS  333 

eyed  girl.  At  what  she  saw  she  began  to  sob  again, 
weakly.  Then  she  shook  herself  angrily,  and 
pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead  with  a 
hand  that  was  closed  into  a  fist.  She  went  into  the 
living  room,  stood  before  her  father  reading  there. 

"Dad." 

He  looked  up  from  his  paper;  stiffened.  "Why, 

Charley,  what's "  Charley  almost  never  cried. 

He  was  as  disturbed  as  if  this  had  been  a  man 
standing  there  before  him,  red-eyed  and  shaken. 

"Listen,  Dad.  You  know  that  thing  Ben  Gartz 
spoke  to  you  about  a  little  while  ago?  The  busi 
ness.  Taking  you  into  it,  I  mean?" 

"That?    Yes.    What  of  it?" 

"He  hasn't  said  anything  lately,  has  he?" 

"Well,  he — he — wasn't  sure,,  you  know.  I  thought 
at  the  time  it  was  a  little  wild.  Ben's  good-hearted, 
but  he's  a  gabby  boy.  Doesn't  mean  quite  all  he 
says." 

"He  meant  it  all  right,  Dad.  But  you  see  he — 
he'd  like  to  have  me  marry  him  first." 

He  stared,  half  willing  to  laugh  if  she  gave  him 
any  encouragement.  But  she  did  not.  His  news 
paper  came  down  with  a  crash,  then,,  as  his  fingers 
crushed  it  and  threw  it  to  the  floor.  "Gartz !  You 
marry  Ben  Gartz!"  She  was  crying  again,  help 
lessly.  His  two  hands  gripped  her  shoulders. 


334  THE  GIRLS 

"Why,  the  damned  old  1 "  he  stopped  himself, 

shaking  a  little. 

"That's  it,"  said  Charley,  and  she  was  smiling 
as  she  sobbed.  "That's  the  word  ...  I  knew  I 
could  count  on  you,,  Dad.  I  knew." 

His  arms  were  about  her.  Her  face  was  pressed 
against  the  good  rough  cloth  of  his  coat.  "Sh-sh-sh 
Charley.  Don't  let  your  mother  hear  you.  We 
mustn't  let  her  know.  She'd  be  wild.  He's  com 
ing  here  to  dinner,  the  oily  old  fox.  Gosh,  Charley, 
are  you  sure  you " 

"I'm  sure." 

"We  won't  say  anything  to  mother,  will  we?" 

"No,  Dad." 

"She'd  be  sick,  that's  what.  Sick.  We'll  fix  him 
and  his  business,,  all  right." 

"Yes.  Talk  about  Jesse.  Talk  about  Jesse  a  lot. 
And  make  it  plain.  About  Jesse.  Then  see  what 
he  has  to  say  about  his  business." 

The  doorbell  sounded.  Charley  was  out  of  his 
arms  and  off  to  her  room.  Belle  came  swiftly  down 
the  hall  and  darted  into  her  bedroom  for  a  hasty 
dab  at  her  flushed  face  with  the  powder  pad.  Henry 
opened  the  door.  Ben's  voice  boomed.  Henry's 
answered  with  hollow  geniality. 

"Come  in,  come  in!  Here,  let  me  have  that. 
Belle'll  be  here  in  a  minute." 

Belle  was  there  becomingly  flushed,  cordial.    Ben 


THE  GIRLS  335 

was  pressing  her  hand.  "It  was  mighty  nice  of 
you,  let  me  tell  you,  to  call  me " 

She  was  panic-stricken  but  Henry  had  not  heard, 
apparently.  He  had  interrupted  with  a  foolish  re 
mark  of  his  own. 

"It's  probably  the  last  time  in  this  place  anyway, 
Ben.  We're  giving  up  this  flat,  you  know.  End 
of  the  month." 

"How's  that?" 

"Can't  afford  it." 

Ben  pursed  his  lips,  drummed  with  his  fingers 
on  the  arm  of  the  deep  comfortable  chair.  "Well, 
now,  perhaps " 

Charley  came  in,  smiling  a  watery  smile  and  pal 
pably  red-eyed.  Her  father  caught  her  and  hugged 
the  slender  shoulder  with  a  paternal  and  yet  quiz 
zical  gesture.  "Nobody's  supposed  to  notice  that 
Charley's  been  crying  a  little.  She  didn't  get  a  letter 
from  her  boy  in  France  and  she  doesn't  feel  happy 
about  it."  She  looked  up  at  him,  gratefully.  He 
patted  her  shoulder,  turned  pridefully  to  Ben. 
"Charley  and  her  poet  are  going  to  be  married,  you 
know,  when  this  war's  over — if  it  ever  is  over.  Look 
at  her  blush !  I  guess  these  new-fangled  girls  have 
got  some  old-fashioned  ways  left,  after  all,  eh, 
Chas?" 

"Yes,  Dad." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THEY  were  in  the  midst  of  packing  and  mov 
ing  when  the  news  came  of  Jesse  Dick's  death. 
She  had  no  formal  warning.  No  official  envelope 
prepared  her.  And  yet  she  received  it  with  a  dread 
ful  calm,,  as  though  she  had  expected  it,  and  had 
braced  herself  for  it.  She  and  her  father  were 
at  breakfast  surrounded  by  wooden  packing  boxes 
and  burlap  rolls.  Charley,  in  peril  of  missing  the 
8:35  I.  C.  train,  contented  herself  with  the  morn 
ing's  news  second-hand.  Henry  Kemp  had  the 
paper. 

" What's  the  daily  schrecklichkeit,  Dad?" 

He  had  not  answered.  Suddenly  the  weight  of 
his  silence  struck  her.  She  looked  up  as  though  he 
had  spoken  her  name.  The  open  newspaper  shielded 
his  face.  Something  in  the  way  he  held  it.  You 
do  not  hold  a  paper  thus  when  you  are  reading, 
"Dad!"  The  paper  came  down  slowly.  She  saw 
his  face. 

"Dead?" 

"Yes." 

336 


THE  GIRLS  337 

He  stood  up.  She  came  around  to  him.  She 
wanted  to  see  it  on  paper,  printed. 

That  morning  she  actually  caught  the  8:35  as 
usual.  She  sold  little  imports  all  that  morning, 
went  out  at  the  lunch  hour  and  never  returned  to 
Shields'.  Outwardly  she  practised  the  stoicism  of 
her  kind.  She  cried  herself  to  sleep  night  after 
night,  indeed;  beat  on  her  pillow  with  an  impotent 
fist;  sat  up,  feverish  and  wakeful,  to  rage  at  life. 
But  she  was  up  next  morning,  as  usual,  pale  and 
determined. 

There  was  a  curious  scene  with  great-aunt  Char 
lotte.  At  news  of  Jesse  Dick's  death  she  had  sum 
moned  Charley;  had  insisted  that  she  must  see 
her;  had  been  so  mysteriously  emphatic  that  Char 
ley  had  almost  rebelled,  anticipating  a  garrulous 
hour  of  senile  sympathy  and  decayed  advice.  Still 
she  went,  ascended  the  stairs  to  Aunt  Charlotte's 
room  (she  came  downstairs  more  and  more  rarely 
now)  and  at  Aunt  Charlotte's  first  words,  "I  knew 
he'd  never  come  back,  Charley,"  would  have  fled 
incontinently  if  something  in  the  grim  earnestness 
of  the  black-browed  old  countenance  had  not  held 
her.  There  was  no  soft  sentimentality  in  great- 
aunt  Charlotte's  word  or  look.  Rather  she  seemed 
eager,  vitalised,  as  though  she  had  an  important 
message  to  convey.  Charley  did  groan  a  little,  in 
wardly,  when  Aunt  Charlotte  brought  out  the  yel- 


338  THE  GIRLS 

low  old  photograph  of  the  girl  in  the  full-skirted 
wasp-waisted  riding  habit,,  with  the  plume  and  the 
rose.  And  she  said  vaguely,  "Oh,  yes,"  as  she 
took  it  in  her  hand,  and  wished  that  she  had  not 
come.  And  then,  "Why,,  Aunt  Charlotte!  You 
lovely  thing!  You  never  showed  me  this  picture 
before!  You're  the  family  beauty.  Your  face  is 
— the  look — it  sort  of  glows " 

"Just  for  a  little  while.  Jesse  Dick  brought  that 
look  to  it." 

"How  do  you  mean — Jesse  Dick?" 

And  quietly,  masterfully,  with  the  repression  of 
more  than  fifty  years  swept  away  before  the  urg- 
ence  of  this  other  Charlotte's  need,  she  told  her 
own  brief  stark  story.  "I  was  eighteen,  Charley, 
when  the  Civil  War  began.  That's  the  picture  of 
me,,  taken  at  the  time " 

Charley  listened.  Sometimes  her  eyes  dwelt  on 
the  withered  old  countenance  before  her ;  sometimes 
she  looked  down,  mistily,  at  the  glowing  face  of  the 
girl  in  the  picture.  But  her  attention  never  wan 
dered.  For  the  first  time  she  was  hearing  the  story 
of  the  first  Jesse  Dick.  For  the  first  time  great- 
aunt  Charlotte  was  telling  it.  She  was  telling  it, 
curiously  enough,  with  the  detachment  of  an  out 
sider — without  reproach,  without  regret,  without 
bitterness.  When  she  had  finished  she  sat  back, 


THE  GIRLS  339 

and  glanced  about  the  bedroom — the  neat,  shabby, 
rather  close-smelling  bedroom  of  an  old,  old  woman 
— and  then  she  opened  her  hands  on  her  knees, 
palms  out,  as  though  in  exposition.  "And  this  is 
I,"  said  the  open  palms  and  dim  old  eyes.  "This  is 
I,  Charlotte  Thrift/' 

As  though  in  answer — in  defense  of  her — Char 
ley  leaned  forward,  impetuously,  and  pressed  her 
fresh  young  cheek  against  the  sallow  withered  one. 
"You've  been  wonderful,  Aunt  Charlotte.  You 
have!  What  would  Grandma  Payson  have  done 
without  you! — or  Lottie,  or  mother,  for  that  mat 
ter." 

But  great-aunt  Charlotte  shook  her  head.  She 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something.  And  then 
Charley  said,  "I'll  be  all  right.  I'm  the  kind  that 
goes  on.  You  know.  I'm  too  curious  about  life 
to  want  to  miss  any  of  it.  I'll  keep  on  trying  things 
and  people  and  I'll  probably  find  the  combination. 
Not  the  perfect  combination,  like  Jesse.  You  don't, 
twice.  But  I  suppose  I'll  marry — sometime." 

"That's  it.  Don't  you  give  in.  You're  twenty. 
Don't  you  give  in.  I  was  scared  when  you  left 
your  work " 

"Oh,  that.  I  couldn't  stay.  I  don't  know.  Rest 
less." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte,  satis- 


340  THE  GIRLS 

fied.  "Restless  is  all  right.  Restless  is  better  than 
resigned." 

Of  Jesse  Dick's  poems,  two  made  a  little  furore. 
The  reviewers  all  had  a  line  or  two  or  three  about 
his  having  been  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the 
younger  poets  of  the  virile  school.  They  said  his 
was  American  poetry,  full  of  crude  power.  One 
poem — the  one  called  "Chemin  des  Dames" — they 
even  learned  in  the  schools,,  mispronouncing  its  title 
horribly,  of  course.  They  took  it  seriously,  sol 
emnly.  Charley  alone  knew  that  it  had  been  writ 
ten  in  satire  and  derision.  It  was  his  protest  against 
all  the  poems  about  scarlet  poppies  and  Flanders 
fields.  Taken  seriously,  it  was  indeed  a  lovely  lyric 
thing.  Taken  as  Charley  knew  he  had  meant  it,  it 
was  scathing,  terribk. 

People  thought  the  one  called  "Death"  was  a  lit 
tle  too  bitter.  Good — but  bitter,  don't  you  think? 
.That  part  beginning : 

"They  said  you  were  majestic,  Death. 
Majestic !     You ! 

I  know  you  for  the  foolish  clown  you  are; 
A  drooling  zany,  mouth  agape  and  legs  asprawl, 

A  grotesque  scarecrow  on  a  barbed  wire  fence. 
it 

When  Charley  read  that  one,  as  she  often  did, 
she  would  beat  with  her  hard  young  fist  on  her 


THE  GIRLS  341 

knee  and  cry  impotent  tears  of  rage  at  the  useless- 
ness  of  it  all. 

They  made  a  book  of  his  poems  and  brought  it 
out  in  the  autumn,  just  before  the  armistice.  A 
slim  book  of  poems.  .There  had  been  so  few  of 
them. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

/CHARLEY  was  away  when  Lottie  came  home 
\^  in  February,  following  that  historic  hysteric 
November.  Charley  was  in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,,  danc 
ing  with  the  KrisilofT  Russian  ballet.  They  were 
playing  Cincinnati  all  that  week,  and  the  future 
bookings  included  Columbus,  Cleveland,  Toledo, 
Akron.  Charley  wrote  that  they  would  be  back 
in  Chicago  for  two  weeks  at  the  end  of  March, 
showing  one  week  at  the  Palace  and  one  at  the 
Majestic. 

"  .  .  .  And  what's  all  this/'  she  wrote  Lottie, 
"about  your  having  brought  back  a  French  war 
orphan  ?  There  never  was  such  a  gal  for  orphans. 
Though  I  must  say  you  did  pretty  well  with  Jean- 
nette.  Mother  wrote  me  about  her  wedding.  But 
this  orphan  sounds  so  young.  And  a  girl,  too.  I'm 
disappointed.  While  you  were  about  it  it  seems 
to  me  you  might  have  picked  a  gentleman  orphan. 
We  certainly  need  some  men  in  our  family.  Send 
me  a  picture,  won't  you?  I  hope  she  isn't  one  of 
those  awfully  brune  French  babies  that  look  a  mix 
ture  of  Italian  and  Yiddish  and  Creole.  In  any 

342 


THE  GIRLS  343 

case  I'm  going  to  call  her  Coot.  Are  you  really 
going  to  adopt  her  ?  That  would  be  nice,  but  mad. 
Did  Grandmother  raise  an  awful  row?  I'm  sorry 
she's  feeling  no  better.  Mother  wrote  you  have 
a  trained  nurse  now.  .  .  ." 

Lottie's  homecoming  had  been  a  subdued  affair. 
She  had  slipped  back  into  the  family  life  of  the 
old  house  on  Prairie  Avenue  as  if  those  months 
of  horror  and  exaltation  and  hardship  had  never 
been.  But  there  was  a  difference.  Lottie  was  the 
head  of  the  household  now. 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  lay  upstairs  in  the  second- 
floor  front  bedroom,,  a  strangely  flat  outline  beneath 
the  covers  of  the  great  walnut  bed.  She  made  a 
bad  patient.  The  eyes  in  the  pointed  sallow  face 
were  never  still.  The  new  nurse  said,  almost  auto 
matically  now,  "Don't  try  to  talk,  Mrs.  Payson. 
You  want  to  save  your  strength." 

"Strength!  How  can  I  ever  get  my  strength 
lying  here!  I  never  stayed  in  bed.  I'll  get  up  to 
morrow,  doctor  or  no  doctor.  Everything's  going 
to  rack  and  ruin.  I  engaged  the  painters  for  the 
first  of  March.  There's  repairing  to  do  on  every 
thing  in  the  spring.  Did  they  send  in  the  bill  for 
fixing  the  shed?" 

But  when  next  day  came  she  threatened  to  get 
up  to-morrow.  And  next  day.  Her  will  still 
burned,  indomitable,  but  the  heart  refused  to  do 


344  THE  GIRLS 

its  bidding.  The  thing  they  called  rheumatism  had 
leaped  and  struck  deep  with  claws  and  fangs,  fol 
lowing  a  series  of  disturbing  events. 

Mrs.  Payson  had  looked  upon  the  Kemp's  re 
moval  from  the  Hyde  Park  apartment  to  the  small 
Fifty-third  Street  flat  as  a  family  disgrace.  The 
Thrifts,  she  said,  had  always  gone  forward,  never 
back.  She  tried  vainly  to  shake  Henry 's  determi 
nation  not  to  take  advantage  of  the  roominess  of 
the  Prairie  Avenue  house.  Henry  had  remained 
firm.  He  had  a  position  as  manager  of  the  china 
and  glass  department  in  a  big  wholesale  house  whose 
specialty  was  the  complete  equipment  of  hotels,  res 
taurants,  and  country  clubs.  His  salary  was  less 
than  one-fourth  of  what  his  income  had  been  in 
the  old  days.  He  said  it  would  have  to  do.  The 
Hyde  Park  Boulevard  furnishings  fitted  strangely 
into  the  cheap-woodwork-and-wall-paper  back 
ground  of  the  new  apartment.  Belle  refused  to 
part  with  any  of  them.  She  said  that  some  day 
they  would  be  back  where  they  belonged.  What 
she  could  not  use  she  stored  in  the  top  floor  of 
her  mother's  house.  By  early  spring  she  was  white- 
enamelling  almost  happily,  and  dickering  with  the 
dour  landlord  as  to  his  possible  share  of  the  ex 
pense  of  plain  plaster  in  the  living  room.  She  had 
the  gift  of  making  a  house  habitable  in  spite  of 
herself. 


THE  GIRLS  345 

The  Friday  night  family  dinners  persisted.  Mrs. 
Payson  even  continued  to  administer  business  ad 
vice  to  the  long-suffering  Henry.  Things  that  had 
seemed  unbearable  in  prospect  now  adjusted  them 
selves  well  enough.  And  then  Charley  had  horri 
fied  them  all  by  discarding  the  black  uniform  of 
a  Shields'  employee  for  the  chiffon  and  fleshings 
of  the  Krisiloff  Ballet.  Belle  and  even  Henry  op 
posed  it  from  the  first  moment  of  surprise  and  dis 
approval,  but  Mrs.  Carrie  Payson  fought  it  like 
a  tigress.  They  had  all  thought  she  would  return 
to  Shields'.  But  she  had  announced,  calmly,  her 
decision  never  to  return.  "Go  back?  Why  should 
I  go  back  there !  The  thought  makes  me  ill." 

Her  father  and  mother  had  received  this  with 
amazement.  "But  Charley,  you  were  promoted  just 
last  week.  You  said  you  liked  it.  Let  me  tell  you 
three  thousand  a  year  isn't  to  be  sneezed  at  by  a 
kid  of  twenty.  In  another  five " 

"Yes,  I  know.  In  another  five  I'll  be  earning 
five  thousand.  I'll  be  twenty-five  then.  And  in 
another  five  I'll  be  earning  ten,  and  I'll  be  thirty. 
And  in  another  five  and  another  five  and  another 
five!  .  .  .  And  then  I'll  colour  my  hair  a  beautiful 
raspberry  shade,  too,  just  like  Healy,  and  wear  im 
ported  black  charmeuse  and  maybe  my  pearls  will 
be  real  and  my  manicure  grand  and  glittering,  and 
while  I  shan't  call  the  stock  girls  'girlie,'  I'll  have 


346  THE  GIRLS 

that  hard  finish.  You  get  it  in  business — if  you're 
in  it  for  business." 

"Well,  what  were  you  in  it  for?" 

"For  Jesse,,  I  suppose." 

They  were  at  dinner  at  home.  Belle  left  the 
table,  weeping.  Charley  and  her  father  went  on 
with  their  meal  and  their  discussion  like  two  men, 
though  Charley  did  become  a  little  dramatic  toward 
the  end.  Later  Belle,  overcome  by  curiosity  at  the 
sound  of  their  low-voiced  conversation,  crept  back, 
red-eyed,,  to  know  the  rest. 

Henry  Kemp,  wise  enough  in  the  ways  of  women 
folk,  as  well  he  might  be — the  one  man  in  that 
family  of  women — groped  bewildered  for  a  motive 
in  Charley's  sudden  revolt.  "But  you  liked  it  well 
enough,  Charley.  You  liked  it  real  well.  You 
said  so.  You  seemed  to  be  getting  a  lot  of  fun 
out  of  it.  Maybe  something's  happened  down  there. 
Anything  wrong?" 

"Not  a  thing,  Dad.  I'm  not  interested  in  it 
any  more.  It's  just  that — it's  just  that — well,  you 
see,  Jesse  furnished  enough  colour  and  light  and 
poetry  for  both  of  us.  When  I  say  poetry  I  don't 
mean  verses  on  paper.  I  mean  rhythm  and  motion 
and  joy.  Does  that  sound  silly  to  you?" 

"Why  no,  Charley,  it  doesn't  sound  silly.  I  guess 
maybe  I  get  what  you  mean,  sort  of." 

"Well—"    Then  it  was  that  Belle  came  creep- 


THE  GIRLS  347 

ing  back  into  the  room,  sniffling.  Charley  looked 
up  at  her  calm-eyed.  "Mother,  I'd  like  to  have 
you  understand  this,  too.  I've  been  thinking  about 
it  quite  a  lot.  I  don't  want  you  to  imagine  I'm 
just  popping  off,  suddenly." 

"Off!"     Belle  snatched  at  the  word. 

Charley  nodded.  "You  see  I've  got  to  have  colour 
and  motion  and  life.  And  beauty.  You  don't  find 
them  at  Shields'.  But  before  Jesse — went — I  knew 
I  could  hit  it  off  beautifully  down  there  and  that 
he'd  furnish  me  with  enough  of  the  other  thing. 
One  of  us  had  to  buckle  down,  and  I  was  the  one. 
I  wanted  to  be.  We  were  both  going  to  be  mar 
ried  and  free  at  the  same  time.  The  little  house 
in  Hubbard  Woods  was  there  to  come  to,,  every  day 
or  once  a  week.  It  was  going  to  be  every  day  for 
me.  But  a  man  like  Jesse  can't  write — couldn't 
write — his  kind  of  stuff  without  feeling  free  to 
come  and  go.  So  there  I  was  going  to  be.  And 
I'd  have  my  job,  and  some  babies  in  between  .  .  . 
Well,  there's  nothing  in  it  for  me  now.  Plodding 
away.  It's  ridiculous.  What  for!  Oh,  it's  inter 
esting  enough.  It's  all  right  if  ...  I  want  a 
change.  Dancing!  Krisiloff's  going  out  with  his 
company.  He's  got  forty-two  solid  weeks  booked. 
I'm  going  with  them.  He's  going  to  let  me  do  the 
Gypsy  Beggar  dance  alone."  She  pushed  her  plate 
away,  got  up  from  the  table.  "It'll  be  good  to 


348  THE  GIRLS 

dance  again."  She  raised  her  arms  high  above  her 
head.  "  'Can  I  show  you  something  in  blouses, 
madam?'  Ugh!" 

Mrs.  Payson,  when  she  heard  of  it,,  was  aroused 
to  a  point  that  alarmed  them  all.  "A  grandchild  of 
mine — Isaac  Thrift's  great-granddaughter — danc 
ing  around  the  country  on  the  stage!  What  did 
I  tell  you,  Belle !  Haven't  I  always  told  you !  But 
no,  she  had  to  take  dancing  lessons.  Esthetic  danc 
ing.  Esthetic!  I'd  like  to  know  what's  esthetic 
about  a  lot  of  dirty  Russians  slapping  about  in  their 
bare  feet.  I  won't  have  it.  I  won't  have  it.  Col 
our,  huh?  Life  and  beauty!  I'd  show  her  colour 
if  I  were  you.  A  spanking — that's  what  she  needs. 
That'd  show  her  a  little  life  and  colour.  She  shan't 
go.  Hear  me!" 

When  Charley  refused  to  discuss  it  with  her 
grandmother  Mrs.  Payson  forbade  her  the  house. 
The  excitement  had  given  her  tremendous  energy. 
She  stamped  about  the  house  and  down  the  street, 
scorning  the  electric. 

Charley  joined  the  Krisiloffs  in  August.  Her  let 
ters  home  omitted  many  details  that  would  have 
justified  Mrs.  Payson  in  the  stand  she  had  taken. 
But  Charley  was  only  slightly  disgusted  and  often 
amused  at  the  manners  and  morals  of  the  Krisiloffs. 
She  hated  the  stuffy  hotels  and  the  uninviting  food 
but  loved  exploring  the  towns.  Audiences  in  me- 


THE  GIRLS  349 

dium-sized  Middle  West  towns  were  rather  startled 
by  the  fury  and  fire  which  she  flung  into  the  Gypsy 
Beggar  dance.  Her  costume  of  satin  breeches  and 
chiffon  shirt  was  an  ingenious  imitation  of  a  street 
beggar's  picturesque  rags  and  tatters.  As  she  fin 
ished  her  dance.,  and  flung  herself  on  her  knees, 
holding  out  her  tambourine  for  alms,  the  audiences 
would  stare  at  her  uncomfortably,  shifting  in  their 
seats,  so  haggard  and  piteous  and  feverish  was  her 
appeal.  But  always  there  was  a  crash  of  applause, 
sharp  and  spontaneous.  She  had  some  unpleasant 
moments  with  other  women  of  the  company  who 
were  jealous  of  the  favour  with  which  her  dance 
was  received. 

When  the  rest  of  the  company  was  sleeping,  or 
eating,  or  cooking  messes  over  furtive  alcohol  stoves 
in  hotel  bedrooms,  Charley  was  prowling  about 
book-shops,,  or  walking  in  the  town's  outskirts,  or 
getting  a  quiet  private  enjoyment  out  of  its  main 
street.  She  missed  Lottie.  She  often  wanted  to 
write  her  many  of  the  things  that  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  family  would  not  have  understood.  In 
the  life  and  colour  and  beauty  she  had  craved  she 
had  found,  as  well,  much  drudgery,  and  sordidness 
and  hardship.  But  she  loved  the  dancing.  The 
shifting  from  town  to  town,  from  theatre  to  thea 
tre,  numbed  her  pain.  She  caught  herself  looking 
at  beauty  through  Jesse  Dick's  eyes.  In  her  Cin- 


350  THE  GIRLS 

cinnati  letter  to  Lottie  she  dismissed  dancing  in 
ten  words  and  devoted  three  pages  to  a  description 
of  the  Nurnberg  quality  of  the  turreted  buildings 
on  the  hill  overlooking  the  river,  from  the  park. 
The  money  she  earned,  aside  from  that  which  she 
needed  for  her  own  actual  wants,  she  sent  regu 
larly  to  the  Red  Cross.  Before  she  had  left,  "I  sup 
pose  I  could  be  cutting  sandwiches/'  she  had  said, 
"and  dancing  with  the  kids  passing  through  Chi 
cago;  or  driving  an  emergency  car.  I'd  rather 
not.  There  are  fifty  girls  to  every  job  of  that 
kind." 

Contrary  to  Aunt  Charlotte's  prediction,  Jean 
nette's  Nebraska  sailor  had  not  become  Jeannette's 
Nebraska  husband  until  after  the  armistice.  She 
was  married  at  Christmas  and  left  for  the  West 
with  him.  The  wedding  was  held  in  the  Prairie 
Avenue  house.  It  turned  out  to  be  rather  a  grim 
affair,  in  spite  of  Jeannette's  high  spirits  and  her 
Bohemian  relatives  and  the  post-war  reaction  and 
the  very  good  supper  provided  by  Mrs.  Payson. 
For  Belle  and  Henry  thought  of  Charley;  and  Mrs. 
Payson  thought  of  Lottie;  and  Aunt  Charlotte 
thought  of  both,,  and  of  the  girl  of  sixty  years  ago. 
And  Jeannette  said  bluntly:  "You  look  as  if  it 
was  a  funeral  instead  of  a  wedding."  She  herself 
was  a  little  terrified  at  the  thought  of  this  great 
unknown  prairie  land  to  which  she  was  going,  with 


THE  GIRLS  35i 

her  smart  fur  coat  and  her  tricotine  dress  and  her 
silk  stockings  and  gray  kid  shoes.  As  well  she 
might  be. 

After  it  was  over,  an  unnatural  quiet  settled  down 
upon  the  house.  The  two  old  women  told  each 
other  that  it  was  a  blessed  relief  after  the  flurry 
and  fuss  of  the  wedding,  but  looked  at  each  other 
rather  fearfully  during  the  long  evenings  and 
awaited  Lottie's  return  with  such  passionate  eager 
ness  as  neither  would  have  admitted  to  the  other. 
They  expected  her  to  pop  in,  somehow,  the  day 
after  the  armistice. 

"Well,,  Lottie'll  be  home  now,"  Mrs.  Payson 
would  say,  "most  any  day."  She  took  to  watch 
ing  for  the  postman,  as  she  used  to  watch  at  the 
parlour  window  for  Lottie  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  she  was  late.  When  he  failed  to  appear  at 
what  she  considered  the  proper  time  she  would 
fume  and  fuss.  Then,  at  his  ring,  she  would  whisk 
into  the  front  vestibule  with  surprising  agility  and, 
poking  her  head  out  of  the  door,  berate  him. 

"You're  getting  later  and  later,  Mail  Man.  Yes 
terday  it  was  nine  o'clock.  To-day  it's  almost  half- 
past." 

Mail  Man  was  a  chromic  individual,  his  grayish 
hair  blending  into  the  grayish  uniform  above  which 
his  grayish  face  rose  almost  indefinably.  He  was 
lopsided  from  much  service.  "Well,  everything's 


352  THE  GIRLS 

late  these  days,  M'z.  Payson.  Since  the  war  we 
haven't  had  any  regular " 

"Oh,  the  war!  You  make  me  tired  with  your 
war.  The  war's  over!" 

Mail  Man  did  not  defend  himself  further.  Mail 
men  have  that  henpecked  look  by  virtue  of  their 
calling  which  lays  them  open  to  tirade  and  abuse 
from  every  disappointed  sweetheart,  housemaid, 
daughter,  wife,  and  mother. 

"Expecting  a  letter  from  Miss  Lottie,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"Yes.    Have  you " 

"Don't  see  it  here  this  morning,  M'z.  Payson. 
Might  be  in  on  the  eleven  o'clock  mail.  Everything's 
late  these  days  since  the  war." 

They  confidently  expected  her  in  December.  In 
December  she  wrote  that  it  would  be  January.  The 
letter  was  postmarked  Paris.  In  January  she  set 
the  date  of  her  homecoming  for  February  and  it 
was  that  letter  which  contained  the  astounding  news 
of  the  impending  French  orphan. 

The  two  old  women  stared  at  each  other,  their 
mouths  open  ludicrously,  their  eyes  wide.  Mrs. 
Payson  had  read  the  letter  aloud  to  Aunt  Charlotte 
there  in  the  living  room. 

"A  French  child — a  French  orphan."  It  was  then 
that  Mrs.  Payson  had  looked  up,  her  face  as  blank 
of  expression  as  that  of  a  dead  fish.  She  plunged 


THE  GIRLS  353 

back  into  the  letter,  holding  the  page  away  from 
her  as  though  distance  would  change  the  meaning 
of  the  black  letters  on  the  white  flimsy  page. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte,  the  first  to  recover, 
"that'll  be  kind  of  nice,  now  Jeannette's  gone  and 
all.  Young  folks  around  the  house  again.  It's  been 
kind  of  spooky.  French  child,  h'm?  That'll  be 
odd.  I  used  to  know  some  French.  Had  it,  when  I 
was  a  girl,  at  Miss  Rapp's  school,  across  the  river. 
Remember  Miss  Rapp's  s " 

"Charlotte  Thrift,  you're  crazy!  So's  Lottie,, 
crazy.  A  French  orphan!"  Another  dart  at  the 
letter — "Why,  it's  a  baby — a  French  baby.  One 
of  those  war  babies,  I'll  be  bound  .  .  .  Where's 
Belle?  I'll  get  Belle.  I'll  telephone  Belle."  Later, 
at  the  telephone — "Yes,  I  tell  you  that's  what  it  says. 
A  French  baby  and  she's  bringing  it  home.  Well, 
come  here  and  read  it  for  yourself  then.  I  guess 
I  can  read.  You  telephone  Henry  right  away,  d'you 
hear !  You  tell  him  to  telegraph  her,  or  cable  her, 
or  whatever  it  is,  that  she  can't  bring  any  French 
baby  here.  The  idea!  Why!  Girls  nowdays! 
Look  at  Charley  .  .  .  Excited  ?  Don't  you  tell  me 
not  to  be  excited,  Belle  Payson !  I  guess  you'd  be 
excited " 

Henry  cabled.  He  agreed  with  Mother  Payson 
that  it  was  a  little  too  much.  Let  the  French  take 


354  THE  GIRLS 

care  of  their  own  orphans.  America'd  furnish  the 
money  but  no  wet-nursing. 

Winnie  Steppler  had  returned  from  France  in 
December.  To  her  Mrs.  Payson  appealed  for  in 
formation.  "Did  you  know  anything  about  this 
crazy  notion  of  Lottie's?  Did  she  say  anything 
to  you  when  you  were  together  there  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed.     I  saw  her/' 

"Saw  who?" 

"The  baby.  The  French  baby.  She's  awfully 
cute.  Fair  .  .  .  No,  they're  not  all  dark,  you 
know  .  .  .  Well,  now,  Mrs.  Payson,  I  wouldn't  say 
that.  It's  a  nice  humane  thing  to  do,  I  think.  All 
those  poor  little  things  left  fatherless.  Lots  of 
Americans  are  bringing  home  .  .  .  You  have? 
Well,  I  don't  think  even  that  will  change  her  now. 
She  seems  to  have  her  mind  made  up.  Maybe  when 
you  see  it " 

"But  where'd  she  get  it?  Where  did  she  find  it? 
How  did  she  happen — — " 

Winnie  Steppler  explained.  "Well,  you  know, 
after  St.  Mihiel,  when  the  Germans  were  retreating 
and  our  boys  were  advancing,  the  Germans  took 
prisoner  all  the  young  French  men  and  women — all 
they  could  lay  hands  on.  Regular  slavery.  They 
took  parents  from  their  children,  and  all.  This  baby 
was  found  in  a  little  town  called  Thiaucourt,  all 


THE  GIRLS  355 

alone,  in  a  kind  of  cellar.  They  took  care  of  her, 
and  sent  her  back  to  the  American  relief." 

"But  the  father  and  mother  ?  They  may  be  alive,, 
looking  for  her/' 

"The  father  was  killed.  That's  proved.  The 
mother  died " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  accumulation  of  fam 
ily  eccentricities  proved  too  much  for  Mrs.  Pay- 
son.  The  "faint  feeling"  mushroomed  into  a  full- 
sized  faint  from  which  they  thought  she  would  never 
recover.  Aunt  Charlotte  had  come  upon  her 
younger  sister  seated  saggingly  in  a  chair  in  the 
living  room.  Her  face  was  livid.  She  was  breath 
ing  stertorously.  They  put  her  to  bed.  For  a  long 
time  she  did  not  regain  consciousness.  But  almost 
immediately  on  doing  so  she  tried  to  get  up. 

"Well !  I'm  not  staying  in  bed.  What's  the  mat 
ter!  What's  the  matter!  Don't  you  think  you 
can  keep  me  in  bed." 

Followed  another  attack.  The  doctor  said  that 
a  third  would  probably  prove  the  last.  So  she 
stayed  in  bed  now,  rebellious  still,  and  indomitable. 
One  could  not  but  admire  the  will  that  still  burned 
so  bright  in  the  charred  ruin  of  the  body. 

So  it  was  a  subdued  homecoming  that  Lottie  met. 
When  she  stepped  off  the  train  at  the  Twelfth  Street 
station  with  an  unmistakable  bundle  in  her  arms, 
Belle  and  Henry  kissed  her  across  the  bundle  and 


356  THE  GIRLS 

said,  almost  simultaneously,  "Mother's  been  quite 
sick,  Lottie.  You  can't  keep  her  at  the  house,,  you 
know." 

"Mother  sick?    How  sick?" 

They  told  her.  And  again,  "You  see,  there  can't 
be  a  baby  in  the  house." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Lottie,  not  in  argument,,  but  al 
most  amusedly,  as  though  it  were  too  ridiculous  to 
argue.  "Don't  you  want  to  see  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Belle,  nervously.  And  "W-what's 
it's  name?"  asked  Henry. 

"I  think  Claire  would  be  nice,,  don't  you?"  Lot 
tie  turned  back  the  flap  of  the  downy  coverlet  and 
Claire  blinked  up  at  them  rosily  and  caught  this 
unguarded  opportunity  to  shoot  a  wanton  fist  in  the 
air. 

"Why,  say,  she's  a  cute  little  tyke,"  said  Henry, 
and  jiggled  her  chin,  and  caught  the  velvet  fist. 
"Claire,  huh  ?  That  isn't  so  terribly  French." 

Belle  gave  a  gasp.  "Why,  Lottie,  she's  so  little ! 
She's  just  a  tiny  baby!  Almost  new.  You  must 
be  crazy.  Mother's  too  sick  to  have " 

Lottie  replaced  the  flap  and  captured  the  waving 
fist  expertly,  tucking  it  back  into  warmth.  "She's 
not  little.  She's  really  large  for  her  age.  Those 
are  all  my  bags,  Henry,  and  things.  There's  a 
frightful  lot  of  them.  And  here's  my  trunk  check. 
Perhaps  you'd  better  tend  to  them.  Here,  I'll  take 


THE  GIRLS  357 

this,  and  that.  Give  them  to  the  boy.  Perhaps 
Belle  and  I  had  better  go  ahead  in  a  taxi  while 
you  straighten  out  the  mess." 

She  was  calm,  alert,  smiling.  Henry  thought  she 
looked  handsome,  and  told  her  so.  "War  certainly 
agrees  with  you,  Lottie.  Gosh,  you  look  great. 
Doesn't  she,  Belle?  Darned  pretty,  if  you  ask  me, 
Lot." 

Belle,  eyeing  Lottie's  clear  fine  skin,  and  the 
vital  line  of  her  shoulders  and  back  and  a  certain 
set  of  the  head,  and  a  look  that  was  at  once  peace 
ful  and  triumphant,  nodded  in  agreement,  vaguely 
puzzled.  "I  thought  you'd  be  a  wreck  .  .  .  What 
do  you  think  of  Charley?  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  and  now 
mother.  And  here  you  come  complicating  things 
still  more.  How  did  you  happen  to  do  such  a  crazy 
thing,  Lottie?" 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  on  the  way  home."  Later, 
in  the  taxi,  the  heaving  bundle  fitting  graciously 
into  the  hollow  of  her  arm:  "Well,  you  know,  after 
St.  Mihiel,  when  the  Germans  were  retreating  and 
retreating  and  our  boys  were  advancing,  the  Ger 
mans  took  with  them  in  their  retreat  all  the  young 
men  and  young  women  they  could  lay  their  hands 
on.  Prisoners,  you  know.  They  meant  to  use  them 
for  work.  Well,  often,  parents  were  taken  from 
their  children.  Babies  were  left  alone.  When  our 
men  got  to  Thiaucourt — that's  a  little  town  of  about 


358  THE  GIRLS 

three  hundred — in  September,  it  was  a  deserted 
ruined  heap  of  stone.  They  were  right  up  on  the 
retreat.  And  there,  in  what  had  been  a  kitchen, 
without  any  roof  to  it,  was  a  baby.  They  sent 
her  back,  of  course,  to  us." 

"Yes,  but  Lottie,  perhaps  the " 

"No.  The  father  was  killed  in  the  war.  They 
traced  the  mother.  She  died  in  November.  I 
adopted  her  legally " 

"You  didn't!" 

"But  I  did." 

"Claire— what?" 

Lottie  looked  down  at  the  bundle ;  squeezed  it  with 
a  gentle  pressure.  "Claire  Payson,  I  suppose, 


now." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  girls  all  came  to  see  the  baby.  They  ex 
claimed  and  cooed  and  atid  and  oh'd.  "Of 
course  it's  wonderful  and  all.  But  it  is  a  big  re 
sponsibility,  Lottie.  How  in  the  world  did  you 
happen " 

"Well,  you  know,  after  St.  Mihiel,  when  the 
Germans  were  retreating  and  our  boys  were  ad 
vancing " 

She  was  asked  to  lecture  before  some  of  the 
women's  clubs,  but  declined. 

Beck  Schaefer,  grown  a  trifle  too  plump  now  in 
the  role  of  Mrs.  Sam  Butler,  insisted  on  holding 
the  struggling  Claire.  "I  never  can  tell  whether 
I  like  a  baby  or  not  until  I've  held  it — her.  'Scuse. 
Though  this  one  certainly  is  a  darling.  Come  to 
your  Aunt  Beck,  sweetie.  Oh,  Lottie!  Look  at 
her !  She  put  her  little  hand  right  up  on  my  cheek ! 
S'e  is  a  tunnin'  ol'  sin,  izzen  s'e!"  This  last  ad 
dressed  directly  to  the  object  of  her  admiration. 
"Sam  and  I  want  to  adopt  a  baby.  That's  what 
comes  of  marrying  late.  Though  I  suppose  you 
heard  about  Celia.  Imagine !  But  he  looks  just  like 

359 


360  THE  GIRLS 

Orville.  Good  thing  he's  a  boy.  I  don't  see  why 
you  didn't  take  a  boy,  while  you  were  about  it. 
Though,  after  all,  when  you've  brought  up  a  girl 
you  know  where  she  is,  but  a  boy!  Well!  They 
leave  you  and  then  where  are  you!  They  don't 
even  thank  you  for  your  trouble.  And  girls  are 
such  fun  to  dress.  Oh,  what  did  you  think  of  Ben 
Gartz  marrying  a  chorus  girl!  Didn't  you  nearly 
die!  I  saw  her  in  the  Pompeiian  Room  with  him 
one  night  after  the  theatre.  She's  a  common  look 
ing  little  thing  and  young  enough  to  be  his  daugh 
ter.  She  was  ordering  things  under  glass.  Poor 
Ben.  He  was  awfully  sweet  on  you,  Lottie,  at  one 
time.  What  happened,  anyway?" 

Against  the  doctor's  orders  and  the  nurse's  ad 
vice  and  manceuverings,  Mrs.  Payson  had  insisted 
on  seeing  the  baby  immediately  on  Lottie's  entering 
the  house.  They  prepared  Lottie.  "It  can't  be 
much  worse  for  her  to  see  you — and  the  baby — 
now  than  not  to  see  you.  She's  so  worked  up 
that  we  can't  do  anything  with  her  anyway.  But 
don't  argue ;  and  don't  oppose  her  in  anything.  Lie, 
if  you  have  to,  about  sending  the  baby  away." 

"Away!     Oh!  no!" 

"But  Lottie,  you  don't  understand  how  sick  she 
is.  Any  shock  might- " 

Lottie  had  scarcely  divested  herself  of  hat  and 
wraps  when  she  entered  her  mother's  bedroom, 


THE  GIRLS  361 

the  child  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Payson's  eyes  were  on 
the  door — had  been  from  the  moment  she  heard  the 
flurry  of  homecoming  downstairs.  As  Lottie  stood 
in  the  doorway  a  moment  the  sick  woman's  eyes  di 
lated.  She  made  as  though  to  sit  up.  The  nurse 
took  the  child  from  Lottie  as  she  bent  over  to  kiss 
her  mother.  Then,  suddenly,  she  dropped  to  her 
knees  at  the  side  of  the  bed.  "Oh,  mama,  it's  so 
good  to  be  home."  She  took  one  of  the  flaccid 
hands  in  her  own  firm  vital  grasp. 

"H'm.  Well,  that's  some  good  come  of  your  leav 
ing,  anyway.  You  look  handsome,  Lottie.  How've 
you  got  your  hair  done?" 

"Just  as  I  always  had  it,  mama." 

"Your  face  looks  fuller,  somehow.  Let's  see  the 
young  one." 

The  nurse  turned  and  leaned  over  the  bed.  But 
at  this  final  test  of  her  good  nature  Claire,  travel 
worn,  bewildered,  hungry,  failed  them.  She  opened 
wide  her  mouth,  lurched  in  muscular  rebellion,  and 
emitted  a  series  of  ear-piercing  screams  against  the 
world;  against  this  strange  person  in  white  who 
held  her;  against  that  which  stared  at  her  from 
the  bed. 

"There !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Payson.  "Take  it  away. 
I  knew  it.  Don't  you  think  for  one  minute  I'm 
going  to  have  any  foreign  baby  screaming  around 
this  house,  sick  as  I  am.  Not  for  a  minute.  I  hope 


362  THE  GIRLS 

you're  satisfied,,  Lottie.  Running  an  orphan  asy 
lum  in  this  house.  Well,  I've  still  got  something 
to  say." 

But  strangely  enough  she  had  little  to  say,  after 
that.  She  showed  small  interest  in  the  newcomer 
and  they  kept  the  baby  out  of  the  sick  room.  The 
little  world  of  her  bedside  interested  the  sick  woman 
more.  She  fancied  them  all  in  league  against  her. 
She  would  call  Lottie  to  her  bedside  and  send  the 
nurse  out  of  the  room  on  some  pretext  or  other 
that  deceived  no  one. 

"Lottie,  come  here.  Listen.  That  woman  has 
got  to  go.  Why,  she  won't  let  me  get  up!  I'm 
perfectly  well." 

"But  perhaps  you  haven't  quite  got  your  strength, 
mama.  You  know  it  takes  a  while." 

"I'll  never  get  my  strength  back  lying  here.  Was 
I  ever  a  person  to  stay  in  bed?" 

"No,,  mama.     You've  always  been  wonderful." 

"A  lot  of  thanks  I've  got  for  it,  too.  Now,  Lot 
tie,  you  see  that  I  get  another  doctor.  This  man's 
a  fool.  He  doesn't  understand  my  case.  Palaver 
ing  young  hand-holder,  that's  what  he  is." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  try  him  a  little 
longer?  He  hasn't  had  time,  really." 

"Time!  I've  been  three  mortal  months  in  this 
bed.  You're  like  all  the  rest  of  them.  Glad  if  I 


THE  GIRLS  363 

died.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  please  you  just  yet. 
You'll  see  me  up  to-morrow,  early." 

They  had  heard  this  threat  so  regularly  and  so 
often  that  they  scarcely  heeded  it  now;  or,  if  they 
did,  only  to  say,  soothingly,  "We'll  see  how  you  feel 
by  to-morrow,  shall  we?" 

So  that  when,  finally,  she  made  good  her  threat 
the  nurse  came  in  early  one  morning  from  where 
she  slept  in  the  alcove  just  off  the  big  front  bed 
room  to  find  her  half -lying,  half -sitting  in  the  big 
chair  by  the  window.  She  had  got  up  stealthily, 
had  even  fumbled  about  in  bureau  and  closet  for 
the  clothes  she  had  not  worn  in  months.  In  one 
hand  she  grasped  her  corsets.  She  had  actually 
meant  to  put  them  on  as  she  had  done  every  morn 
ing  before  her  illness,  regarding  corsetless  kimo- 
noed  women  with  contempt.  She  must  have 
dragged  herself  up  to  the  chair  by  an  almost  super 
human  effort  of  will.  So  they  found  her.  A  born 
ruler,  defying  them  all  to  the  last. 

Charley  came  home  for  the  funeral.  She  was 
not  to  rejoin  the  Krisiloff  company  until  its  arrival 
in  Chicago  for  the  two-weeks'  engagement  there. 
"If  ever,"  said  Henry  Kemp  privately  to  Lottie. 
"I  don't  think  she's  so  crazy  about  this  trouping 
any  more.  You  ought  to  have  heard  her  talking 
about  the  fresh  eggs  at  breakfast  this  morning. 


364  THE  GIRLS 

I  asked  her  what  she'd  been  eating  on  the  road 
and  she  said,  'Vintage  oofs.' ' 

Mrs.  Carrie  Payson's  funeral  proved  an  enlight 
ening  thing.  There  came  to  it  a  queer  hodge-podge 
of  people;  representatives  of  Chicago's  South  Side 
old  families  who  had  not  set  foot  in  the  Prairie 
Avenue  house  in  half  a  century;  real  estate  men 
who  had  known  her  in  the  days  of  her  early  busi 
ness  career;  Brosch,  the  carpenter  and  contractor, 
with  whom  she  had  bickered  and  bartered  for  years  ; 
some  of  the  Polish  and  Italian  tenants  from  over 
Eighteenth  Street  way;  women  in  shawls  of  whom 
Lottie  had  never  heard,  and  who  owed  Mrs.  Pay- 
son  some  unnamed  debt  of  gratitude.  Lottie  won 
dered  if  she  had  ever  really  understood  her  mother; 
if  the  indomitability  that  amounted  almost  to  ruth- 
lessness  had  not  been,  after  all,  a  finer  quality  than 
a  certain  fluid  element  in  herself,  in  Aunt  Char 
lotte,  in  Charley,  which  had  handicapped  them 
all. 

Aunt  Charlotte  mourned  her  sister  sincerely; 
seemed  even  to  miss  her  tart-tongued  goading.  No 
one  to  find  fault  with  her  clothes,  her  habits,  her 
ideas,  her  conversation.  Lottie  humoured  her  out 
rageously.  The  household  found  itself  buying  as 
Mrs.  Payson  had  bought;  thinking  as  she  had 
thought ;  regulating  its  hours  as  they  had  been  regu- 


THE  GIRLS  365 

lated  for  her  needs.  Her  personality  was  too  pow 
erful  to  fade  so  soon  after  the  corporeal  being  had 
gone. 

More  easily  than  any  of  them  Aunt  Charlotte  had 
accepted  the  advent  of  the  French  baby.  To  her 
the  sound  and  sight  of  a  baby  in  the  old  Prairie 
Avenue  house  seemed  an  accustomed  and  natural 
thing.  She  had  a  way  of  mixing  names,  bewilder- 
ingly.  Often  as  not  she  called  Claire  "Lottie,,"  or 
Charley  "Claire."  She  clapped  her  hands  at  the 
baby  and  wagged  her  head  at  her  tremulously,  and 
said,  "No,  no,  no !  Auntie  punish !"  and  "Come  to 
Auntie  Charlotte,"  exactly  as  she  had  done  forty 
years  before  to  Belle.  Once  she  put  the  child  down 
on  the  floor  for  a  moment  and  Claire  began  to 
wriggle  her  way  down  the  faded  green  stream  of 
the  parlor  carpet  river,  and  to  poke  a  finger  into 
the  sails  of  the  dim  old  ships  and  floral  garlands, 
just  as  Lottie  and  Belle  had  done  long  ago. 

There  was  much  talk  of  selling  the  old  house; 
but  it  never  seemed  to  amount  to  more  than  talk. 
In  proper  time  Claire  was  cutting  her  teeth  and 
soothing  her  hot  swollen  gums  on  the  hard  sur 
face  of  Ole  Bull's  arms,  just  as  Belle  and  Lottie 
had  done  before  her.  This  only,  of  course,  when 
Aunt  Charlotte  was  holding  her.  Lottie  and  Char 
ley  both  put  down  the  practice  as  highly  unhy 
gienic. 


366  THE  GIRLS 

"Fiddlesticks!  You  and  Belle  did  it  with  all 
your  teeth.  And  you're  living." 

Charley  came  daily — often  twice  daily — to  see 
the  baby.  She  was  fascinated  by  her,  made  herself 
Claire's  slave,  insisted  on  trundling  her  up  and 
down  Prairie  Avenue  in  the  smart  English  pram, 
though  Lottie  said  she  much  preferred  to  have 
her  sleep  or  take  her  airing  in  the  back  garden 
undisturbed.  Charley  and  Aunt  Charlotte  opposed 
this.  Charley  said,  "Oh,  but  look  how  ducky  she 
is  in  that  bonnet !  Everybody  stops  to  look  at  her, 
and  then  I  brag.  Yesterday  I  told  a  woman  she 
was  mine.  I  expected  her  to  say,  'And  you  so 
young!'  but  she  didn't/' 

Aunt  Charlotte  said,  "This  new  fad  of  never  talk 
ing  to  babies  and  never  picking  'em  up !  It  makes 
idiots  of  them.  How  can  you  ever  expect  them 
to  learn  anything?  Lie  there  like  wooden  images. 
Or  else  break  their  hearts  crying,  when  all  they 
want  is  a  little  petting  .  .  .  Her  want  her  ol'  Auntie 
to  p'ay  wis  her,  yes  her  does,  doesn't  her?"  to  the 
baby. 

Claire  was  one  of  those  fair,  rose-leaf  babies, 
and  possessed,  at  eight  months,  of  that  indefinable 
thing  known  as  style.  She  was  the  kind  of  baby, 
Charley  said,  that  looks  dressy  in  a  flannel  night 
gown.  "Those  French  gals,"  Charley  explained. 
"Chic.  That's  what  she's  got.  Haven't  you,  ma 


THE  GIRLS  367 

petite?  Ma  bebe — or  is  it  mon  bebe,  Lotta?  I  get  so 
mixed."  Charley's  was  the  American  college  girl's 
French,  verbless,  scant,  and  faltering.  She  insisted 
on  addressing  Claire  in  it,  to  that  young  person's 
wide-eyed  delight.  "Tu  est  mon  chou — ma  chou — 
say,  Lotta,  you're  a  girl  that's  been  around.  Do 
they  really  call  each  other  cabbages  over  there?" 

One  of  the  big  bedrooms  on  the  second  floor  had 
been  cleared  and  refurnished  as  a  nursery.  Here, 
almost  nightly  at  six  o'clock,  you  found  Lottie, 
Charley,  and  Aunt  Charlotte.  The  six  o'clock  bot 
tle  was  a  vital  affair.  It  just  preceded  sleeping  time. 
It  must  be  taken  quietly  for  some  dietetic  reason. 
The  three  women  talked  low,  in  the  twilight,  watch 
ing  Claire  in  her  small  bed.  Claire  lay  rolling  her 
eyes  around  at  them  ecstatically  as  she  pulled  at 
the  bottle.  She  exercised  tremendous  suction  and 
absorbed  the  bottle's  contents  almost  magically  un 
less  carefully  watched. 

This  evening  the  talk  centred  on  the  child,  as  al 
ways.  Trivial  talk,  and  yet  vital. 

"She's  growing  so  I'll  have  to  let  her  hems  down 
again.  And  some  new  stockings.  The  heels  of  those 
she  has  come  under  the  middle  of  her  foot." 

"Look  at  her  Lotta!  She's  half  asleep.  There, 
now  she's  awake  again  and  pulling  like  mad.  Swoons 
off  and  shows  the  whites  of  her  eyes  and  then  re 
members  and  goes  at  it  again.  Now  she's — I  never 


368  THE  GIRLS 

saw  such  a  snoozey  old  thing.  Sleeps  something 
chronic,  all  day  and  all  night.  What  good  are 
you,  anyway,  h'm?" 

Aunt  Charlotte  grew  reminiscent.  "Time  you 
and  Belle  were  babies  you  wore  long  dresses — great 
long  trailing  bunchy  things,  and  yards  and  yards 
of  petticoats — flannel  and  white.  It  used  to  take 
the  girl  hours  to  do  'em  up.  Nowdays,  seems  the 
less  they  put  on  'em  the  healthier  they  are." 

Charley  was  seated  cross-legged  on  the  floor,  her 
back  against  a  fat  old  armchair.  "How  about  the 
babies  in  France,  Lotta?  I  suppose  they're  still 
bundling  them  up  over  there.  What  did  the  Coot 
have  on  when  they  found  her,  h'm?" 

Lotta  rose  to  take  the  empty  bottle  away,  gently. 
Claire's  eyes  were  again  showing  two  white  slits. 

Aunt  Charlotte,  in  the  window  chair,  leaned  for 
ward.  Her  tremulous  forefinger  made  circles, 
round  and  round,  on  her  black-silk  knee.  "Yes, 
Lotta.  Now  what  did  she  have  on,  poor  little  for 
lorn  lamb!" 

"Why — I  don't  remember,  Aunt  Charlotte."  She 
tucked  the  coverlet  in  at  the  sides  of  the  crib  firmly. 
Claire  was  sound  asleep  now,  her  two  fists  held  high 
above  her  head,  as  a  healthy  baby  sleeps.  Lottie 
stood  a  moment  looking  down  at  the  child.  The 
old,  old  virgin  in  the  chair  by  the  window  and 
the  young  girl  seated  cross-legged  on  the  floor 


THE  GIRLS  369 

watched  her  intently.  Suddenly  the  quiet  peaceful 
air  of  the  nursery  was  electric.  The  child  made 
a  little  clucking  sound  with  tongue  and  lips,  in 
her  sleep.  Charley  sat  forward,  her  eyes  on  Lot 
tie. 

"Lotta,  do  you  remember  my  five — my  five " 

she  broke  off  with  a  half -sob.  Then  she  threw  up 
her  head.  "I'll  have  them  yet." 

It  was  then  Aunt  Charlotte  put  into  brave  words 
the  thought  that  was  in  the  minds  of  the  three 
women.  "Don't  you  want  to  tell  us  about  him, 
Lottie?  Don't  you!" 

For  one  instant  terror  leaped  into  Lottie's  eyes 
as  they  went  from  Aunt  Charlotte's  face  to  Char 
ley's.  But  at  what  they  saw  there  the  terror  faded 
and  in  its  place  came  relief — infinite  relief.  "Yes." 

"Well,  then,  just  you  do." 

But  Lottie  hesitated  yet  another  moment,  looking 
at  them  intently.  "Did  you  both  know — all  the 
time."  Aunt  Charlotte  nodded.  But  Charley  shook 
her  head  slightly.  "Not  until  just  now,  Lotta  .  .  . 
something  in  your  face  as  you  stood  there  looking 
down  at  her." 

Lottie  came  away  from  the  crib,  sat  down  in  a 
low  chair  near  Aunt  Charlotte.  Charley  scuttled 
crab-wise  over  to  her  across  the  floor  and  settled 
there  against  her,  her  arm  flung  across  Lottie's 
knee.  The  old  Prairie  Avenue  house  was  quiet, 


370  THE  GIRLS 

quiet.  You  could  hear  the  child's  regular  breath 
ing.  Lottie's  voice  was  low,  so  that  the  baby's  sleep 
might  not  be  disturbed,  yet  clear,  that  Aunt  Char 
lotte  might  hear.  They  could  have  gone  downstairs, 
or  to  another  chamber,  but  they  did  not.  The  three 
women  sat  in  the  dim  room. 

"We  met — I  met  him — in  Paris,  the  very  first 
week.  He  had  gone  over  there  in  the  beginning 
as  a  correspondent.  Then  he  had  come  all  the  way 
back  to  America  and  had  enlisted  for  service.  He 
hated  it,  as  every  intelligent  man  did.  But  he  had 
to  do  it,  he  said.  We — liked  each  other  right  away. 
I'd  never  met  a  man  like  that  before.  I  didn't  know 
there  were  any.  Oh,  I  suppose  I  did  know ;  but  they 
had  never  come  within  my  range.  He  had  only  a 
second-lieutenancy.  There  was  nothing  of  the  com 
mander  about  him.  He  always  said  so.  He  used 
to  say  he  had  never  learned  to  'snap  into  it'  prop 
erly.  You  know  what  I  mean?  He  was  thirty- 
seven.  Winnie  Steppler  introduced  us.  She  had 
known  him  in  his  Chicago  cub  reporter  days.  He 
went  to  New  York,  later.  Well,  that  first  week, 
when  I  was  waiting  to  be  sent  out,  he  and  Winnie 
and  I — she  met  me  in  Paris,  you  know,  when  I 
came — went  everywhere  together  and  it  was  glori 
ous.  I  can't  tell  you.  Paris  was  being  shelled  but 
it  refused  to  be  terrorised.  The  streets  and  the 
parks  and  the  restaurants  were  packed.  You've  no 


THE  GIRLS  371 

idea  what  it  was,  going  about  with  him.  He  was 
like  a  boy  about  things — simple  things,  I  mean — 
a  print  in  a  window,  or  a  sauce  in  a  restaurant,  or 
a  sunset  on  the  Bois.  We  used  to  laugh  at  noth 
ing — foolish,  wonderful,  private  jokes  like  those 
families  have  that  are  funny  to  no  one  outside  the 
family.  The  only  other  person  I'd  ever  known  like 
that  was  a  boy  at  school  when  I  went  to  Armour. 
I  haven't  seen  him  since  I  was  eighteen,  and  he's 
an  important  person  now.  But  he  had  that  same 
quality.  They  call  it  a  sense  of  humour,  I  suppose, 
but  it's  more  than  that.  It's  the  most  delightful 
thing  in  the  world,  and  if  you  have  it  you  don't 
need  anything  else  .  .  .  Four  months  later  he  was 
wounded.  Not  badly.  He  was  in  the  hospital  for 
six  weeks.  In  that  time  I  didn't  see  him.  Then 
he  went  back  into  it  but  he  wasn't  fit.  We  used 
to  write  regularly.  I  don't  know  how  I  can  make 
you  understand  how  things  were — things " 

Charley  looked  up  at  her.  "I  know  what  you 
mean.  The — the  state  of  mind  that  people  got  into 
over  there — nice  people — nice  girls.  Is  that  what 
you  mean?" 

"Yes.     Do  you  know?" 

"Well,  I  can  imagine " 

"No,  you  can't.  The  world  was  rocking  and 
we  over  there  were  getting  the  full  swing  of  it. 
It  seemed  that  all  the  things  we  had  considered  so 


372  THE  GIRLS 

vital  and  fundamental  didn't  matter  any  more.  Life 
didn't  count.  A  city  to-day  was  a  brick-heap  to 
morrow.  Night  and  day  were  all  mixed  up.  Terror 
and  work.  Exhaustion  and  hysteria.  A  lot  of  us 
were  girls — women,  I  mean — who  had  never  known 
freedom.  Not  license — freedom.  Ordinary  free 
dom  of  will,  or  intellect,  or  action.  Men,  too,  who 
had  their  noses  to  the  grindstone  for  years.  You 
know  there's  a  lot  more  to  war  than  just  killing, 
and  winning  battles,  and  patching  people  up.  It 
does  something  to  you — something  chemical  and 
transforming — after  you've  been  in  it.  The  reac 
tion  isn't  always  noble.  I'm  just  trying  to  explain 
what  I  mean.  There  were  a  lot  of  things  going 
around — especially  among  the  older  and  more  se 
vere  looking  of  us  girls.  It's  queer.  There  was  one 
girl — she'd  been  a  librarian  in  some  little  town  up 
in  Michigan.  She  told  me  once  that  there  were 
certain  books  they  kept  in  what  they  called  The 
Inferno,"  and  only  certain  people  could  have  them. 
They  weren't  on  the  shelves,  for  the  boys  and  girls, 
or  the  general  public.  When  she  spoke  of  them  she 
looked  like  a  librarian.  Her  mouth  made  a  thin 
straight  line.  You  could  picture  her  sitting  in  the 
library,  at  her  desk,  holding  that  pencil  they  use 
with  a  funny  little  rubber  stamp  thing  attached  to 
it,  and  refusing  to  allow  some  schoolgirl  to  take 
out  'Jenm'e  Gerhardt.'  She  was  discharged  and 


THE  GIRLS  373 

sent  home  for  being  what  they  called  promiscu 
ous  ...  I  just  wanted  you  to  know  how  things 
were  ...  He  got  three  days'  leave.  Winnie  Step- 
pier  was  in  Paris  at  the  time.  I  was  to  try  for 
leave — I'd  have  gone  A.  W.  O.  L.  if  I  hadn't  got 
it — and  we  three  were  to  meet  there.  Winnie  had 
a  little  two-room  flat  across  the  river.  She'd  been 
there  for  almost  a  year,  you  know.  She  made  it 
her  headquarters.  The  concierge  knew  me.  When 
I  got  there  Robert  was  waiting  for  me.  Winnie 
had  left  a  note.  She  had  been  called  to  Italy  by 
her  paper.  I  was  to  use  her  apartment.  We  stayed 
there  together  .  .  .  I'm,  not  excusing  it.  There  is 
no  excuse.  They  were  the  happiest  three  days  of 
my  life — and  always  will  be  ...  There  are  two 
kinds  of  men,  you  know,  who  make  the  best  sol 
diers.  The  butcher-boy  type  with  no  nerves  and  no 
imagination.  And  the  fine,  high-strung  type  that 
fears  battle  and  hates  war  and  who  whips  himself 
into  courage  and  heroism  because  he's  afraid  he'll 
be  afraid  .  .  .  He  hated  to  go  back,  though  he 
never  said  so  ...  He  was  killed  ten  days  later 
...  I  went  to  Switzerland  for  a  while  when  .  .  . 
Winnie  was  with  me  .  .  .  She  was  wonderful.  I 
think  I  should  have  died  without  her  ...  I  wanted 
to  at  first  .  .  .  But  not  now.  Not  now." 

Stillness    again.      You    heard   only   the    child's 
breathing,  gentle,  rhythmical. 


374  THE  GIRLS 

Aunt  Charlotte's  wavering  tremulous  forefinger 
traced  circles  round  and  round  on  her  knee — round 
and  round.  The  heavy  black  brows  were  drawn 
into  a  frown.  She  looked  an  age-old  seeress  sit 
ting  there  in  her  black.  "Well."  She  got  up 
slowly  and  came  over  to  the  crib.  She  stood  there 
a  moment.  "It's  a  brave  lie,  Lottie.  You  stick  to 
it,  for  her.  A  topsy-turvy  world  she's  come  into. 
Perhaps  she'll  be  the  one  to  work  out  what  we 
haven't  done — we  Thrift  girls.  She's  got  a  job 
ahead  of  her.  A  job." 

Lottie  leaned  forward  in  the  darkness.  "I'll  never 
stand  in  her  way.  She's  going  to  be  free.  I  know. 
I'll  never  hamper  her.  Not  in  word,  or  look,  or 
thought.  You'll  see." 

"You  probably  will,  Lottie.  You're  human.  But 
I  won't  be  here  to  see.  Not  I.  And  I'm  not  sorry. 
I've  hardly  been  away  from  the  spot  where  I  was 
born,  but  I've  seen  the  world.  I've  seen  the  world 
.  .  .  Well  .  .  ." 

She  went  toward  the  door  with  her  slow  firm 
step,  putting  each  foot  down  flat;  along  the  hall 
she  went,  her  black  silk  skirts  making  a  soft  susur- 
rus.  Lottie  rose,  opened  a  window  to  the  sharp 
spring  air.  Then,  together,  she  and  Charley  tiptoed 
out,  stopping  a  moment,  hand  in  hand  at  the  crib. 
The  nursery  room  was  quiet  except  for  the  breath 
ing  of  the  child. 

THE   END 


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